


The Scarlet Waterfall

by Dawnstar17



Category: Frozen (Disney Movies), Original Work
Genre: Angst, Birthday, Child Abuse, Depression, F/F, Gun Violence, Hispanic Character, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Nudity, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt, Swearing, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:42:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 56,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22368901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dawnstar17/pseuds/Dawnstar17
Summary: One feels nothing. The other feels everything. After failed suicide attempts, two self-harming young women are forced to face their demons together in a mental hospital. Dedicated to all of us who have been there, who wonder what it's like, or who are thankful our lives aren't anything like this.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 18





	1. Brin - This is harder than I thought it would be

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer / major trigger warnings: This is a work of fiction, with fictitious characters and events (even if they're "inspired" by real life). This is not intended to be an accurate depiction of how things actually take place, is not a substitute for professional medical advice, and is most definitely not meant to be a “how to” guide in any way. If you think a story like this might make you feel worse as opposed to being cathartic, then please do not read!
> 
> Tags include Disney's "Frozen" because of multiple references to it (especially end of chapter 6 and most of chapters 10-11) and that the two struggling main characters realize they're similar to Elsa and Anna in many ways.

* * *

Knife in hand, I stare at my naked body in the mirror. My reflection, blank and expressionless, stares back.

No, this just isn’t going to work. Not that I have any problem with nudity. I was born naked, so it seems appropriately symmetric that I should die naked too. The problem is that society (or at least American society) has an aversion to nudity, specifically nudity of anybody under 18 years old, and that milestone of adulthood is still eight months away for me. Since I’m going to be recording myself, I don’t want anybody that sees my video to be charged with possession of child pornography or anything stupid like that. It’s true, there have been numerous cases where adolescents get put on the sex offender registry just because they sexted themselves or viewed a friend’s sext.

After a short consideration, I settle on wearing a black string bikini I ordered online the other month. Mostly naked will be almost as good, since I’m going to be making a mess. As for the original purpose of the bikini, I tried showing myself off on social media broadcasting apps as an experiment to see if I would enjoy getting that kind of attention from people. Realistically, my physical features are fine enough to not be unattractive, but that wasn’t the problem. I just didn’t see the purpose or get anything out of “thotting” or making such a display of myself.

Seriously, I think I’m asexual.

Not that I feel anything at all, really. I can’t remember the last time I laughed, cried, or shed any sort of tear, and that includes early childhood. For a while I experimented with the darkest sites I could find on the Web: Hardcore pornography sites, sites showing deaths on camera such as ISIS beheadings and drug cartel tortures, and the like. Nothing would disturb me, or create any sort of reaction. I’m beginning to think I may be a sociopath. Finally I reached a point of numbness where I no longer felt anything wrong with not feeling anything. Of course, that means I have little to no apprehension for what I’m about to do.

Properly dressed, or rather undressed, for the occasion, I move to the main room where everything has been set up. It’s a pretty fancy place I live in, considering it’s in San Francisco, one of the tightest housing markets in America. There’s this large marble bathtub by the window, and here from the fifth floor you can see the Golden Gate Bridge. Admittedly it’s a couple of miles away so you can barely see it, especially since it’s usually extremely foggy here, like it is this afternoon. I live alone, or that might as well be true. I’m not going to say anything about my “parents” or lack thereof, other than to mention I never met my father and my mother’s off gallivanting in Europe for the next three months. That means there’s zero probability that anybody’s going to interrupt me.

The key part of the setup is a video camera on a two hour timer pointed at the empty bathtub. After two hours, it will automatically stop the recording and upload it to several of the gore and death sites mentioned earlier. Like offering one’s body to science, it makes sense to accomplish something useful in this process. I’ve always been a bit of a geek, and one thing you pick up on with an isolated life is computer scripting skills. Anyway, I step into the tub, reach over to start my wait-then-upload script on the PC, and finally click record on the camera.

So begins my suicide video.

* * *

The first thing I do once the countdown and recording begins is absolutely nothing, other than just stare into the camera. I have two hours in which to kill myself, so I’m not in any hurry. Not that I have any sort of sentimentality, but these are going to be the last 120 minutes of my existence, so I’m going to proceed in the way that I want, or at least to the degree that I can desire anything in the first place. Nobody’s going to see this recording until after I’m dead, so I don’t really care if the video starts out slow. This is a recording, not a live stream. I don’t want any live audience to tell me they’re getting bored, to tell me to do it or not to do it, or to try to call the police to try to find and stop me. I’m sure some weirdoes who see the video will upload their own edited versions that just focus on the “good parts”.

Once I’m ready to start doing something, I introduce myself by name. I don’t mention my real name of Brin, but rather “Scarlet”, a nickname which most everybody calls me and which I use to name all my online accounts and such. Scarlet comes from the strong red coloring of my hair, and that classmates ironically try to compare me to Scarlett O’Hara from “Gone With the Wind”, even though that character has black hair and our personalities are absolutely nothing alike. Girls of Irish ancestry are supposed to be feisty and passionate, however I don’t fit that stereotype at all. Back to the video, I say what I’m about to do, and give a warning for the squeamish. I even mention the building I live in, so people can locate me afterward. Normally you’d never do that online, but again I don’t care since I’ll be dead soon. As entertaining as it is to visualize my “mother” or her boyfriend walking in on my maggot-infested, decaying corpse and keeling over from its smell, I’m without feeling, not without ethics. Speaking of which, I’m not soiling myself either. When people die, their bowels relax, and so suicides of all types are typically found covered in their own excrement. However, it’s been nearly a week since I’ve bothered to eat anything, so that’s not happening with me.

I suppose people are going to want to know why I’m killing myself. I didn’t write a suicide note or anything, since there’s nobody I care to write a note to, which means this video is it. I try to explain my nihilism, and how life is worthless, meaningless, empty, painful (to the degree that I can feel pain), and that death is our natural state of being. All things die, I didn’t ask to be born, I’m certainly not drawn to living, and it’s just a matter of how much dog feces you’re willing to put up with before you get put out of your misery. I’m an atheist, and the thought that there’s any such thing as god, a soul, or life after death is utterly ridiculous and completely illogical. I’m not impulsive or religious in the least, but a strange idea pops into my head to do a prayer. I mockingly ask Jesus, if he exists, to come save me and make life not be pointless. It seems appropriate to put my non-existent faith into something that also doesn’t exist. It’s probably one of the worst prayers ever voiced. I don’t think I’m dramatic either, but since I am doing a video I might as well throw the viewers a bone now and then.

“No?” I ask innocently while looking up to a non-existent deity. “Ok, then let’s get started.”

My lack of feelings does have a few positive aspects, namely a high pain tolerance. Nevertheless, slicing my forearms to the arteries isn’t going to tickle, so I want to be prepared, especially since I’m not taking illegal narcotics or anything like that to dull my physical senses. Therefore, it’s time for some preliminary self-harm. Cutting on my thighs will ease me (and the viewers I suppose) into the process, and release endorphins and adrenaline for when I do the fatal slashing of my forearms. For now, I can cut as deep as I want, and not have to care if they’ll leave huge scars or any of the other considerations I usually have to do whenever I self-harm, since I’m not going to be around to worry about whether people can see them. Wait, I said when I usually do self-harm? Oh right, add that to the list of things I’ve experimented with.

After about a half a dozen significant cuts on each thigh, it occurs to me that I could just keep cutting, and go on an extreme self-harming frenzy all over my body. I could die due to “death from a thousand cuts”. But no, that probably wouldn’t work, because you really need to hit an artery if you want to bleed to death. I printed out a diagram of the human arm so I know exactly where to penetrate in order to hit the ulnar arteries in my forearms, and about how deep I need to go. I’m reminded of the classic advice for slashing your wrists: “Remember kids, it’s down the road, not across the street.” But I do have to say, this is quite an impressive job at it is. These cuts on my legs, if they were to be taken care of, would need butterfly bandages at least, and probably stitches. I can see down into my fat layer, and see the “corn bits” among them. Note that unless you’re experienced with self-harm you won’t know what I mean by “corn bits”, and unless you like gore you probably don’t want to know either. Blood is running down my legs and starting to make a pool in the bottom of the tub. Ok, there’s definitely endorphins and adrenaline surging through my body now.

It’s time to end this so-called life. I pick up my knife, which is one of those fancy super-sharp ceramic creations. I’m not trying to get by with just using a razor blade, with which you can’t cut very deep and which quickly makes your hand slippery with blood to do much. It’s best to just do this quickly and get it over with. Holding the blade in my right hand, I carefully place the blade on my left wrist in the right spot, and get ready to press and pull the blade toward my elbow.

I hesitate.

Well, so much for acting like a boss and killing myself quickly. I had no qualms about slicing up my legs just a few minutes ago. I know there’s a survivor’s instinct that makes it hard to step off the chair and hang yourself, or let go of the cliff, or pull the trigger when the shotgun is in your mouth. But successful suicides overcome it all the time, so I can too. This is just like a self-harm cut, only a little deeper. Ready, and go!

“Yeeeeouuuuch!” Oh my non-existent god, that hurt! That hurt a lot! And I flinched in a major way, so although there’s now an irregular and off-target cut running half way down my arm that’s starting to bleed, it’s not nearly deep enough. I try again, and to make a long story short, the same exact thing happens. Pain receptors are only near the surface of the skin, so after a while this shouldn’t hurt anymore, right? I don’t know what is wrong with me. I keep trying to lengthen and deepen the cut, without much success. Frustrated, I make a few cuts elsewhere on my arm. I now know from firsthand experience why suicides often have what they call “hesitation cuts”.

There’s less than an hour left of time on my video now. This is getting annoying, at least to the degree that I feel anything. It’s like sex, in which you’re trying to have an orgasm but just can’t come. Not that I’ve ever had sex, at least not with another person. Oh yeah, add autoeroticism to the list of things I tried to find pleasure in but still found boring and pointless.

“This sucks, Hannah Baker made it look so easy.” Hannah Baker is the heroine from the Netflix series “13 Reasons Why” who in the final episode slit both her wrists to the arteries in less than 10 seconds without hesitating. But that’s just a fictional show, and this is real. The evidence is apparent: Slashing your wrists in real life is a horribly inefficient way to kill yourself. I had the wonderfully bright idea I wanted to do this video, a contribution to science so to speak, but instead I’m just making a complete idiot out of myself. Seriously, if there’s ever a next time then I’m doing this in a much more straightforward manner: Just go to the station, put my neck on the tracks, and let the Caltrain decapitate me.

I grab a salt shaker, rip off the top, and pour it over my arm wound. I never knew it was possible to scream so loud! However at the same time I’m disconnected from the pain, and can’t really feel it. It’s like all this is happening to another person. I pour the rest of the salt over my thighs, although that doesn’t produce much more than a combination between a screech and a moan, and throw down the shaker into the tub so it shatters.

I pause.

In spite of the physical and existential pain, the agonizing discomfort and all-encompassing wrongness of living is even greater. I angrily jam the knife into my wrist hard enough that I expect it should go through and come out the other side. (It doesn’t.) Before I can think otherwise and stop myself, I close my eyes, tense, and release all my strength into pushing the knife down while pulling it towards me.

Several things happen at once. There’s now a massive cut on my forearm that’s literally shooting forth a small geyser of blood. It’s spraying a short but measurable distance away from my arm, the strength of the outflow increasing and decreasing in alignment with my heartbeat, and it’s getting all over everything. Yes, I definitely reached the artery! There’s a strange sense of wrongness that I’ve now broken through a barrier that shouldn’t ever be crossed. Or at least not crossed according to most people, I tell myself. I’m not like most people. However, what captures my attention most is a strange buzzing rising up through my body. Everything seems clearer now, brighter and brought into sharp focus. I have no idea what’s going on, until I feel tears leak from my eyes. I’m crying! I’m crying for the first time I can remember.

Finally, I feel something!

I suppose this is where one thinks that I break through my numb shell, realize the preciousness and beauty of life, and stop what I’m doing and seek help? I do have my phone within reach, in case I decide to back out. It never hurts to be prepared and keep your options open. I may be able to feel now, but that just means I’m no longer just numbly going through the motions, and I realize that I truly desire to kill myself. A course has been set, and I’m following it like a determined sailor. That’s not a bad analogy, since the pool of blood in the bottom of the bathtub is rapidly increasing in size.

I’ve cut one arm, but that may not be enough to bleed out. I really want to cut my other arm too, for symmetry and to make sure this actually works. My whole left arm is going haywire and I can’t decide whether it’s numb, in extreme pain, or some strange combination of the two. Regardless, it will be almost impossible to hold a knife in my left hand. But I planned for this in advance. There’s a heavy table by the tub which has a hole in it, in which to attach a lamp or some other fixture. My knife fits in it firmly and snugly. Still sobbing, I insert the knife, blade up, and have it right by the tub. Taking advantage of the extreme endorphin high from my first cut, I do some quick visualization in my head, make sure everything is still within view of the camera, raise my right arm high above the knife, take a deep breath, and slam it down onto the blade as hard as I can.

I must be getting light headed, or the endorphin high from cutting an artery is like self-harming on steroids, because that didn’t hurt nearly as much as I thought it would. Encouraged, I half stand up, putting all my weight behind my impaled arm, take another deep breath, and force myself to lunge forward to slice the blade through my flesh down my arm.

Ok, that falls in the extremely not smart category, because this time it really, really, really hurt! I fall back into the tub, among a growing arena of blood, broken glass, salt, and tears, and nearly lose consciousness. I maintain control, and slowly push myself up. I now have two blood geysers, one spraying from each arm. I hold both arms up and stare into the camera. “Now this ought to do it.”

There’s a mirror set up behind the camera, and I can’t help but jump a bit when I see my reflection. I’m covered with blood, my hair is a matted mess, tears stain my face, not to mention the major and minor cuts on my body, some of which I just got from rolling around in the tub on broken glass. I wasn’t lying when I said I’d be making a mess. I get the ridiculous idea that I should take a still shot of myself in this state and make it my Facebook profile picture. I’m sure some perverts are going to be doing things just like that, if not get turned on by this whole ordeal.

But I’m not going to be doing anything at all for much longer. My heart is beating faster and faster, which I know is in an attempt to get blood to important organs, but it’s doomed to fail since so much blood is spilling out and rapidly dropping my blood pressure. I decide I might as well finish with a flourish. I pick up my phone, or rather slide it across the table toward me, since neither hand can do much of anything anymore. In view of the camera, I shakily dial “9”, another “9”, then hover my bloody finger over the “1” for a second. Looking into the camera I intone, “What part of ‘I’m suicidal’ don’t you understand? The ‘I’m’ or the ‘suicidal’?” Scooping a numb hand underneath my phone, I fling it across the room as hard as I can. It hits a metal door frame and shatters, or at least the screen does. Nice, a quality shot for the video. You can’t say I’m not determined.

That action seemed to take a lot out of me, because I’m really getting lightheaded now. I don’t feel anxious, or even relieved that it’s almost over, but instead I’m almost bored with the whole process. Still crying involuntarily, because my tear ducts seem to be making up for lost time, I lie down in the tub, surprisingly calm, and wait for the end.

And wait. And wait some more. Seriously, just how long is this going to take?

Losing consciousness is like falling asleep. You never know when it hits you, and there’s never any moment when you realize that this is the last second you’ll be awake. Or the last second you’ll be alive. One moment I’m lying there in the tub feeling increasingly woozy, and the next I’m out like a light, and cease to feel or be aware of anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this after watching “13 Reasons Why” on Netflix. Its Season One final episode had a young woman slit both her arms to the arteries in just a few seconds, with little hesitation while doing little more than gasping. I found that unrealistic, since a real suicide attempt in this manner generally takes much longer, is much more painful, and should emphasize the mental states or lack thereof that can drive one to actually do such a thing. That suggests it’s possible to present a more realistic experience of wrist slashing, and this chapter is the result. Netflix eventually removed that scene to avoid potentially “glorifying suicide”, but it’s possible a more intense depiction of how long and painful it is would be more of a deterrent. (See also: Meth addiction pictures and stories which scare one away from doing drugs.)


	2. Marissa - It’s a long way down

* * *

Phone in hand, I stare at my arch-enemy in the sunlight. My nemesis, the Golden Gate Bridge, looms above me. You shall not defeat me, you oversized hunk of rusty metal! I will defeat my fears, and prove for once that I’m not such a worthless piece of shit. Ok, my enemy isn’t the bridge, but my terrible fear of heights. I get weak kneed and shaky or have an outright panic attack whenever I’m more than like 20 feet off the ground. So today I decided I’m going to walk across this bridge, like a girl bravely entering the dragon’s lair. And because all my annoying as fuck friends have decided I’m not worth being with today, I have to do this all by myself.

But I promise you, today will change my life, and I will not be the same person by tonight!

I take a step forward.

* * *

Cool, this isn’t as bad as I was afraid it would be! You see, the walkway next to the bridge is quite wide, so I can stay far away from the railing. There’s a number of people, tourists, joggers, and families also out enjoying this surprisingly warm and non-foggy afternoon. And the water, hundreds of feet below and sparking in the sunlight like the skin of a vampire from “Twilight”, is so far down that it’s hard to realize I’m, like, really high up.

I make my way to the very center of the span, acting just like a normal person. The spot is easy to see because the big cables hang lowest at that point. I should either turn back here, or if I want more exercise go all the way to the far end of the bridge and only then turn around. But first, it’s picture time! This is a great spot for some cool landscapes and Instagram worthy selfies. I take out my phone, and cautiously step to the railing.

Don’t look down, I tell myself, don’t look down! Just take one picture, then back up again. Not even I can’t screw up such a simple thing, right? Ha, you obviously don’t know me very well! I try to take the picture, while resisting the urge to look down. That means I’m not looking at my phone in a normal way, or even holding it right. I’m sure you can see where this is going? Yep, clumsy dumb idiot me drops my phone while my hands are over the railing.

Bloop, down goes my phone! Oh no! It clatters on metal several feet below. Wait, it clatters? Why isn’t it half way down to the bay by now? It turns out there’s a narrow ledge just a few feet wide on the other side of the railing, which you can’t really see unless you look straight down. This ledge isn’t solid like the walkway, but instead is just some metal beams with spaces between them. Lying on one of the beams right next to the real edge is my phone.

Now what? I can’t reach it from here, not even by crouching down and reaching through the bars of the railing. Besides, the ledge is actually quite a bit lower than the walkway. My mom will absolutely, totally, skin me alive if I lose my phone, since we paid so much for it. I have to get it back! Anxious tears start forming in the corners of my eyes.

Before I can think otherwise, I kick off my shoes, and climb up onto the railing. It’s a little awkward and not very elegant while wearing a dress, but I lift one foot on top, and then the other. I’m sure you’re not supposed to do this, but I’ll just grab my phone and hop back over before bridge officials or anybody can stop me. I hear a shouting voice, hear footsteps running, and even feel a hand try to grab me, although I may have just imagined that last part. Sorry, too late suckas! I leap off the top of the railing, and land, barefoot, on the metal beams below.

Let’s face it, I’m stupid as fuck. While falling, I realize that the ledge is farther below the level of the walkway than I thought. Counting the four feet or so of railing, I jump down more than eight feet in all. Landing barefoot on metal is jarring and painful. What’s more, since I don’t jump down like this very often, or at all really, I’m not very good at keeping my balance after a fall. Can you guess where this is headed?

I land, and with a stinging sensation in my feet, immediately totter and wave my arms around wildly. I scream loudly and almost tip over the edge, which would end my story right there. But instead I manage to grasp onto the metal beam below me, giving it a bear hug. I’m now right on the very edge, with no railing or anything between me and hundreds of feet of freefall. Needless to say, I have a massive panic attack. It would be bad enough if I weren’t afraid of heights. I can’t breathe, my head spins, and I lose awareness of everything around me.

After a while I’m able to open my eyes. I can see my phone about two inches in front of my face. I’m shaking uncontrollably, but I’m pleased with myself that I’m smart enough for once to not try to grab my phone right away. I’m sure I’d just be a stupid clutz and knock it over the edge, and for real this time. I try to breathe deeply and do something to reduce my anxiety. Speaking of grabbing things, somebody definitely tries to grab me now. Somebody has reached down through the bars, and tries to take hold of my shoulder from behind. That brings back bad memories from when I was little, so needless to say I freak out. My head spins so I immediately grab the beam again, and scream, “Don’t touch me!”

This man at least immediately pulls his hand back, which is a relief. I look up at the railing, and there are a few people up there staring at me like I’m some animal in the zoo. I’m not approaching the railing so that somebody can grab me again, but I have zero room behind me before I fall off the edge. I feel trapped in a corner, even though this is like totally the opposite, with open air in all directions. “Leave me alone!” I cry at them.

“Hey, uh, you should get back up here, girl.”

“You… all of you… need to fuck off and fucking go away!” What can I say, I’m in full defense mode now. Shields up and go to Red Alert!

There’s muttering up on the walkway, and it seems like a small crowd is forming. Somebody walks up and tosses one end of a rope over the edge, which hits me right in the face. That makes me upset, so I whip out a knife, grab the rope, and cut through it. I wish I could say I was cool and did it in a single slice, but this rope is tough, so it takes a few seconds. Where did the knife come from? Hey, I’m a 15 year old girl walking around the city by herself. You can’t take too many precautions! Also, I’m not a very bright kid, but I do at least know one thing: Dresses should have pockets. Mine does!

“What the fuck did I just say?” I shout while casually yet dramatically tossing the piece of rope behind me over the edge. Ack, that makes me think of falling myself, which makes me dizzy again, which makes me hold tightly to the beam again.

While staring at red painted metal right in front of my face, I wonder what a random person on the bridge was doing with a length of rope. A mountain climber walking home with a new purchase from the climbing store? Some porn site owner getting ready to film his next bondage video? Yuck, bondage, that’s not something I want to think about right now. I assume they threw me the rope to help me climb back over the edge. It won’t be that easy climbing back over the railing, and I could use some help. But leave it to me to ruin every fucking opportunity I’m ever given.

I look back up, and other than a larger crowd than before, things are pretty quiet. Probably my holding up a knife is keeping people from getting too close. I should remember this! Pulling a knife on people is a good way to keep your privacy and keep them out of your space.

Instead of privacy, a police car pulls up and stops. It has lights flashing and everything! How the fuck did they get here so fast? So much for hopping the railing without making a big scene. I seem to be an expert at getting myself into trouble. If I were a superhero, guess what my superpower would be? Rush hour is starting around now too, and traffic was already backing up. A parked police car blocking one of the few lanes on the bridge is making things much worse.

An officer walks up to the railing. Ooh, he’s cute! “Hello there, miss. Are you ok?”

“No, I’m not okay. I’m… horrible.” I try to keep from crying again. No, I don’t succeed.

I remember that I’m still holding the knife. I’m holding a knife up while a police officer is talking to me. This could turn bad really fast. I wasn’t lying when I said I’m great at getting into trouble. Good thing for me this cop seems to be calm, at least for now. But first things first, I need to get rid of my knife. No, I don’t want to just drop it over the edge, because knowing me it would fall on a boat passing underneath at just the right time and kill someone, and I’d be a murderer.

“Can I get you anything? Do you want to come back up?” he asks in a surprisingly soothing voice.

“Can I give you this?” I hold up the knife. “I can slide it over the top by your feet, if that’s ok?” It’s not like I’m a danger to anyone, since the most I could do from down here is poke at someone’s shoes.

The cute officer agrees, although I ask him to step back a bit since I don’t want anybody lunging and grabbing my hand when I reach up. He does that too, which I’m surprised and pleased about. Cops are usually the ones giving you orders. Anyhoo, I place the knife up on the walkway next to my shoes, with blade pointed at me, and he carefully picks it up.

Score one for me, right? I pointed a knife at a cop and didn’t get tackled, tazed, or shot! This will, like, give me serious street cred! The non-escalation or whatever they call it programs cops are taking these days seem to be working. He talks nice to me a bit more, and I keep waiting for him to get mad and tell me I’m under arrest. We small talk until an ambulance shows up. Its lights are flashing too! It works its way through the traffic and stops behind the police car, which slows traffic down even more.

“What the fuck is an ambulance doing here? Geez, I can’t even!” Oops, I guess I’m the one that got mad first.

“Miss, the ambulance came here for the same reason I did. We want to help you. Nobody here wants you to jump.”

“Jump? I…” And then it hits me like a brick to the face. Oh my god! Oh my fucking god! I didn’t see it before now. Everybody here thinks I’m trying to kill myself. Everybody thinks I went over the railing because I want to leap off the bridge and commit suicide. And now they’re trying to talk me off the ledge.

Now what? I try to clear the air. “I don’t want to die…” I manage to get out, before bursting into tears. On top of being scared of everything in the first place, this is all too much. Of course, me being a crybaby probably just makes them think I really want to do it. That’s one reason why my nickname at school is “Waterfall”, because I’m always crying. I wonder if I were an old black man instead of a pretty white girl if anybody would give a shit? Ok, I’m really half Hispanic, but that same thing applies. And no, I’m not pretty, even though people are always telling me I am.

The cop is saying something, but I’m too upset to hear him. I see people looking down on me with concern, and even a couple people off to the side with their cell phones pointed at me. Like, seriously? They just want to get it on video if I do jump. That sends me off the deep end! No pun intended.

“Fucking jerks! Do you want to see me jump? Is that what you shitheads want?” I grab my phone, and take a picture back. Oops, it’s in selfie mode, so I take what I’m sure will be an interesting looking picture of myself out here clinging to the ledge. I’m more mad than afraid at this point, so I’m able to hold onto a beam, and lean out over the edge as if I were threatening to really jump.

A lot of people are talking and shouting above me, but I’m not paying any attention. Instead I’m looking down. Not straight down into the water, but farther down just a few feet and against the side of the bridge. Hanging from a big bolt a couple feet below me is a necklace. How on earth did that get there? Somebody had to put it there, of course. Somebody who was sitting where I am now. Somebody who probably did jump. Now that’s fucking wild!

I really want this necklace for some reason! I can’t resist. I flatten myself against the ledge, and reach down toward it. I’m still ignoring everybody else. My arms are too short to reach it, but I don’t want to give up. This is like the part in the story where the heroine faces the final challenge before getting the magic treasure and saving the kingdom. I grab onto the beam with an arm and a leg, so I can reach my upper body over the edge too. Almost… got it! I pull it back up and am back on the ledge before my usual doubts and fears can stop me.

I’m holding a silver chain with a small solid silver heart on the end of it. I’m holding it with love like I would a furry kitten. No, who am I kidding here? I’m grabbing it with desire like Gollum holding his precious One Ring. I finally look up, and it looks like the cop and the emergency staff and what looks like some construction workers who must be bridge crew or something have pushed everyone back.

Having completed my quest, I’m suddenly tired. As in really, really, tired. It’s starting to get dark, I’m cold, my legs hurt from kneeling on lumpy metal, and my clothes have gotten dirty from rubbing against stuff that probably hasn’t been washed since before I was born. I know I can’t wait any longer. It’s time to end this little misadventure. But I just have one more thing to find out.

“So, um, if I come up, can I keep this?” I hold up the locket.

“I don’t see why not. Unless somebody claims it, it’s no different from picking up litter.” I’m hurt that officer Cutie considers my heart locket litter, but if that means he lets me keep it, I’ll try to keep my mouth shut. Ha, like I’ve ever been able to do that!

I push myself up, and immediately wince because my hair was under my hands, and just I yanked on it. Graceful job again there! Really, long hair looks nice, but sometimes it just gets in the fucking way. Oh yeah, long straight hair is the other reason why my school nickname is “Waterfall”.

I tentatively stand up, holding on to the railing above me. I make sure my phone, which is what got me into this mess in the first place, is safely in my pocket. I reach up, and immediately my hands are grabbed by the officer and some other guy. I hate being touched like this, but before I can do or say anything I’m pulled up, and dragged over the top of the railing, facing toward them. Ow, that scraped my boobs! It also got my clothes even dirtier.

Back on the sidewalk, I blink in the light. People cheer, and in response I roll my eyes. Yay, the damsel in distress got rescued, now can you all please just go away? I can see my reflection in the windows of the ambulance, and I look as messed up as I feel.

“Next time jump, stupid wetback cunt!” A small car slowly rolls by with what looks like four preppy frat boys in it. Wow, both racist and sexist in one sentence. I bet they feel special!

“Fuck off, pencil dicks!” I scream back at them, flipping them off with my free hand. Ok, not my best comeback. A steady stream of cars is slowly inching by, and most drivers look mad by the delay. Like the frat boys they can tell what just happened, and that I’m the cause of it.

Officer Cutie is still holding my wrist firmly. I can’t resist trying to yank away. This guy is really buff, because his arm doesn’t even move. I guess he doesn’t want me to rush the railing and throw myself over, or run out into traffic. Ok, forget the traffic part, since it’s moving so slowly anybody would be able to stop in time, like, really easily. Wait, that reminds me, the people here still think I was trying to off myself.

“But I wasn’t trying to kill myself! I’m serious, I just dropped my phone and went to go get it. I’m really sorry! Please, can I please go now? Am I being detained?”

They’re not buying it. Not at all. The more I talk the most they just think I’m trying to talk my way out of it. Which I suppose I am. I start crying again, which just makes me seem even crazier. If they take me to the police station or hospital or whatever my mother will absolutely murder me. I guess it’s the hospital, because they open the back of the ambulance, and bring out one of those wheeled stretcher things, which they want to put me on. I see the straps on it, which they can use to tie down your arms and legs.

I’ve had several freak outs today, but none are as bad as when I see that. I finally get what I expected would happen much earlier, and get grabbed by multiple cops and nurses. I’m flailing and screaming like a banshee on drugs, and manage to get one good bite in on some lady’s arm. But it’s no use. I’m forcibly strapped down until I can’t move, then lifted into the ambulance. Someone tosses my shoes in, and then the doors slam.

It feels like I’ve made a bunch of bad choices today. Story of my life, really. I promised myself that today my life would change, and I would not be the same person by tonight.

I really have to be careful what I wish for!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Doctors are often like cops. They’re never around when you need them, and are often around when you don’t. Sometimes you’re desperate to get counseling or treatment, but can’t get it (at least not without like a three month waiting period) no matter hard you try. Other times you make a casual remark about suicide, and suddenly the police are at your door ready to taze you and haul you off to the hospital. This chapter is an extreme example of the latter, where you just want to be left alone but can’t convince them that you’re not going to hurt yourself.


	3. Brin - Out of the frying pan

* * *

A dark and ruined landscape stretches out before me, empty as far as the eye can see except for numerous dead bushes and trees, all of which are covered with sharp thorns and spikes. The temperature is elevated enough that the dusty ground burns my bare feet, so I can’t stand too long in one position. I try to pick my way through the leafless vegetation, not knowing where I came from or where I’m going, but only manage to scratch my bare legs on the spines.

A raven squawks from one of the trees. I meet its beady black eyes for a second, and then without warning it dives straight at my face. I manage to block it with my arms, but the raven gouges a deep cut, which begins to bleed. That produces a painful sensation, so I try to get away, but only manage to scratch my legs more. More ravens dive at me from other directions, and they keep on ripping up my arms as I endeavor to keep them away from my face.

I’m trapped, and there’s nothing I can do to escape. Where could I go? Where was I before I arrived here? I don’t remember. But I had to be somewhere. Thinking further on the matter (which I should note is very difficult to do while a swarm of ravens is violently ripping your flesh) it occurs to me that this could all be a dream. That’s interesting, since I never dream. Wait, where did that recollection come from? Anyway, if this is a dream then I should be able to wake myself up.

However, I don’t succeed, no matter what I do. If I eventually succumb to the ravens, will I die here? What would dying in this place even mean? The pain is agonizing, and I feel it like I’ve never been able to feel anything before. Being able to feel or not feel is something else that dredges up some memory. I feel something else, or rather the lack of something. While stumbling around, my left foot doesn’t touch the ground. Looking straight down, I see a small cave entrance. It appears to be just large enough for me to fit through.

Still shielding my face, I drop to my knees, and dive my head into the hole. I crawl in, hoping it can shield me from the ravens and the extreme heat. The tunnel is narrow enough that I feel sharp rocks poking my back as well as scraping my knees and legs. The ravens are now pecking at the soles of my feet from behind, but at least they’re no longer around my torso and face. I wriggle forward, not knowing how far down the tunnel goes. I just keep willing myself forward through the tunnel of darkness, until it seems like I’ve left the ravens and everything else behind and only an eternal expanse of empty and silent blackness remains.

Only then do I wake up.

* * *

Eyes closed, I sense that I’m lying upon a soft bed. I hear a machine beeping, and voices in the distance. I conclude that this is a hospital room, and that I must be a patient.

When waking up from sleep or unconsciousness, most people are in a semi-conscious state for a period of time before the reality of their waking world kicks in. Memory explodes within me, and I realize who I am, what’s happened recently, and that I’m alive. Oh my non-existent god! Somehow, my perfectly arranged suicide attempt did not succeed, and now I’m in the hospital. I can’t conceive of any way that could have happened, or how any person could have found me or become aware of what I was doing before my video was uploaded. I was literally bleeding to death. I didn’t just cut myself, or even cut open a vein, but I went deeper and cut an artery, or two of them to be precise. There’s absolutely zero probability I should be alive. Nevertheless, I can’t deny that alive is what I am right now. Still groggy, I open my eyes.

“So, she’s finally awake.”

The voice comes from a plump older woman sitting in a chair at the foot of my bed. She’s holding an iPad tablet in her lap and is wearing a name tag which says “Mary”.

“Whaaat?” I barely get the word out because my mouth is extremely dry. Not that I care to talk with this woman who seems to be glaring at me, but if I want any answers it appears that I’m required to interact with her.

“Young woman, I do hope you realize the trouble you’ve caused everyone.” Mary sounds like a disapproving teacher. “Both my grandsons were extremely disturbed after watching your little ‘performance’. Their school counselor was working overtime, I hear. I looked at the video too, but stopped right away once it became apparent what you were doing. Anyway, hospital calls me in to do a suicide watch for a 17 year-old. I enter the room, and lo and behold, you’re That Girl.” She says the last two words with emphasis, like it’s a special title.

“How… did I get here?”

Mary already appeared annoyed with me, but my simple question seems to set her off. “Wow, and now you’re asking questions. You really don’t care about anybody but yourself, do you? I knew your generation was all about doing things for attention, but seriously girl, you’ve taken the whole cake and left nary a bite for anybody else. I don’t think Satan himself could have come up with a better way to distort people’s views about suicide and contribute to unrealistic expectations of it.”

“I’m sorry.” A simple response. There were many I considered giving this woman. However, it’s important for her to be on my side. Besides, it’s the truth that I am actually sorry. I regret I didn’t die, and I’m sorry that I’m stuck here with her. Of course, if she misinterprets me that’s not my fault.

Surprisingly, my apology softens her considerably. “You know, that’s what you said in your video, the very last thing before you were saved. Or so I heard, since I of course didn’t watch it myself. I suppose if you are really sorry, I shouldn’t be so hard. Only the good Lord can forgive you, and much of the fuss going on about you right now is that it looks like He did exactly that.”

Ok, two things Mary just said don’t make sense. One, I never said I was sorry at any time in my video. Two, I have no idea where all this stupid Christian imagery is coming from, other than my mock prayer asking Jesus to “save” me. Perhaps she’s just referring to the fact that I was found and given medical attention in some fashion?

“Mary, will you please show me the video?” Her face scowls but I continue. “It’s hard for me to take responsibility for my actions if I can’t experience what I’ve really done. Besides, I don’t think I’m leaving this room anytime soon, so we might as well do something productive.” Again, I’m wording things in a particular manner for her, but I’m not actually lying in anything I’ve said. I usually don’t care about people or need anything from them. Nevertheless, people are easy to manipulate if you can determine what they like or what they fear.

Eventually, I get her to prop up her iPad on my lap. I’m too weak to move my body, and I can’t even feel my arms, but I can tell from the lumps under the covers that they’re still there and haven’t been amputated or anything. Besides, there’s an IV inserted into the joint of my elbow. I do notice that my video is being played from a site that I didn’t upload it to myself, which means that it’s spread, and who knows how much. Mary hits play, and I begin to watch.

* * *

Seeing yourself on video is a somewhat unusual experience. We’re not used to seeing ourselves other than in the mirror, and so it feels like I’m watching somebody other than myself. The first part proceeds as expected. I can’t deny that the video turned out well, with good lighting and everything in focus. My body does have some involuntary cringing responses once I really start hurting myself. I can see why an ordinary person would be strongly affected by all the blood and screaming.

I’m most interested in what happens after I fall unconscious. Not that I’m sentimental about such things, but I thought “suicidal” was going to be my last word, once I said that I was and then broke my phone. I watch myself fall back in the tub with my eyes closed, arms still bleeding heavily. I wait a minute to see what happens next.

“I’m sorry.”

There it is. I don’t need to back up to that portion again. I definitely said I was sorry at that point, although I don’t remember doing so, since I was unconscious at the time. Who or what my subconscious mind and body was apologizing to, and why, is unknown. I consider the matter for another minute, while the video is quiet and my body is lying still.

A shadow in the video draws my attention. I realize that it’s coming from outside the window. From the top of the window a large shape descends. It’s a platform being lowered from above, upon which two men are working, both holding squeegees. The man on the left starts spraying the window with a soapy solution, but the other notices me lying in the bathtub and elbows him to stop. They’re gesturing at me and talking animatedly, but can’t be heard very well through the glass. Finally the man on the right lifts his foot and starts kicking the window. On his third kick the entire pane shatters inward. The pane isn’t directly in front of me so I’m not sliced with any falling pieces of broken glass, or rather I should say that I don’t get cut up any more than I already am.

The men jump down into the room, their boots crunching loudly on the shattered glass. They’re both talking in Spanish. The slightly older man who did the kicking seems to be the more experienced. He checks my pulse, looks around the room for something, and after not finding it strips off his shirt, exposing his hairy chest. He tears his shirt in two pieces, which he wraps around my elbows to form tourniquets. He’s pretty muscular, or at least is strong enough to easily pick my body up out of the bathtub. He carries me out through the window, and then they both get back on the platform, which quickly lowers out of sight. After several more minutes of silence my two hour video ends.

My Spanish isn’t fluent, but I know enough to pick up much of what they were saying, and to learn their names. The man carrying me is named Jesus, and his partner is named Manuel. At this point everything immediately clicks together in my head, and I realize what just happened.

I’ve been surprised by unusual occurrences multiple times today. I wasn’t expecting to be alive, I wasn’t expecting to say I’m sorry in my video, and I definitely wasn’t expecting window washers to show up at just the wrong moment to turn my meticulously planned suicide into a failed suicide attempt. However, what’s most unexpected is that I realize that I was just rescued by a man named Jesus. That’s right, in an extreme example of a randomly occurring coincidence, I “prayed” for Jesus to come save me, and literally that’s exactly what happened.

* * *

I’m in the hospital for two more days, and there’s always somebody in the room watching me. The doctor says I lost over 40% of my blood, which is right on the edge of the limit that leads to brain damage, permanent organ failure, or death. However, I seem to be unaffected mentally. Unfortunately, my body seems to be good at vasoconstriction, which is where injured blood vessels are able to contract to help reduce blood loss. But I still lost a lot. Apparently I went through almost the entire supply of the hospital’s type A positive blood in transfusions before I was stabilized.

Occasionally I’m able to convince Mary, or whoever else is in the room assigned to my suicide watch during other shifts at the hospital, to let me browse the internet on whatever device they have available. The doctor says I missed cutting any important nerves and tendons, so should regain full use of my hands. Right now my hands are still numb and difficult to move, but I’m at least able to clumsily swipe at a screen to scroll.

The situation is as bad as I expected. Of course, I intended my video to be seen, but not while I am still alive. This has virally spread just as far, swiftly, and intensely as when 12-year-old Katelyn Nicole Davis live streamed hanging herself, and that video was shared all over Facebook and other social media for several weeks. In addition to the shock value of what I did, the incident also appears to have become a battleground for debates about Christianity between fundamentalist believers and those with more skeptical and secular views. Entire forums have been created about me online. For example, in one location the following are the first 12 threads listed, each of which has a significant number of postings within it:

  * “OMG! She hurts herself and hurts herself and just doesn’t stop! :-(”
  * “I was considering suicide myself. Eww, not anymore! :P”
  * “Who else can’t sleep or is having nightmares since watching this???”
  * “Jesus and Manuel love thread. Soooo sexy!!!! <3”
  * “Top 10 things I learned from Scarlet. #10: Close the curtains first if you want to kill yourself!”
  * “Scarlet isn’t Born Again yet people. Her prayer wasn’t sincere and she still has to confess her sins.”
  * “I know Manuel! This is what happened next.”
  * “God has a plan for you Scarlet, even if you don’t realize it yet. <3 Get well soon!”
  * “Stop giving this case so much attention people! You’re encouraging others to make their own ‘videos’.”
  * “The Lord works in mysterious ways. But remember, not every prayer will be answered so literally.”
  * “Anybody reach Scarlet herself yet? Here’s the hospital she’s at:”
  * “Drone footage, seriously?! Scarlet may have lived, but privacy is definitely dead.”



The “this is what happened next” thread is what I look into first, since I’m still trying to determine what’s going on. Once Jesus and Manuel took me down to street level, they found an abandoned shopping cart nearby, and used it to rush me to the hospital. A major hospital is only three blocks away from where I live, which is yet another circumstance that wasn’t in my favor. Anyway, that must have been quite a spectacle: Two blue collar Hispanic males (one shirtless) running down the street, pushing a shopping cart containing an unconscious half naked still technically underage white girl covered in blood. Thinking they were human traffickers or something illegal of that nature, more than one person tried to stop them or report what they saw. But they just barreled ahead, and didn’t stop for anything until they reached the emergency room.

The “drone footage” thread was unexpected too. Internet “fans” of my case were able to find out where I live, and even see the exact location. It’s not too difficult, because you just go to my street and look around for the big broken window. Somebody took a drone and actually flew it up and in through the hole, and took video of the bloody bathtub and scenes from inside the room before the building manager was able to get there, clean up, and get the window repaired. I suppose it was a mistake for me to tell everybody where I was broadcasting from on my video. Yes, that drone video is making the rounds too. The thread then devolved into a long debate about whether the laptop and video camera that I used which were still set up by the bathtub were the best brands. Welcome to the culture of the internet.

Concerning the “here’s the hospital she’s at” thread, since there’s only one major hospital near my place, people know exactly where I’m staying. Apparently people have been trying to reach me for interviews and such, but since they’re not family the hospital staff isn’t letting them in. Right on cue, an hour after reading this there’s a commotion in the hall right outside my hospital room, in which somebody is trying to reach me. They’re just short of being able to peer into my room before security reaches him and pushes him back in spite of his protests. “No, really, she’s my cousin!”

Mary was watching me again when this happened. “Enjoying your 15 minutes of fame? Or rather, 15 hours or 15 days in your case. You really are a handful, you know that? I can’t wait for all this to be over and to hand you off to those who know how to deal with your type.”

I know precisely what she means by “deal with your type”. Once I’m physically well enough to leave the hospital, I’m not just being released. It’s my mental health that they’re concerned about. I get informed that I have been involuntarily committed, and am being transferred to a psychiatric hospital in a separate building located nearby. I was almost curious about the set of events that let me to my current situation, but having learned the details, I’ve returned to my previous state of all-consuming apathy. I still want to cease existing, but killing myself is going to be much more difficult now as a closely watched psychiatric patient.

I’m in enough of a daze from my mental condition and various medications that I’ve been administered that I’m tuned out from much of the process. I’m barely able to walk under my own power once I’m in the psychiatric ward. Few details manage to produce electrical impulses within my brain, but one is that this ward is for adolescent girls. Both my arms are bandaged from elbow to wrist, and as a result it’s completely obvious that I’m here due to a failed suicide attempt. A small cluster of girls a few years younger than me are watching to see who the new arrival is. One of them points at me. “Oh my god, it’s That Girl!”

I don’t even react. It’s like they don’t even exist. It’s like I don’t even exist. Without a word I stumble into the room the nurse points me to, lie down on my bed, and withdraw from everything, even myself. It’s possible to be dead even if your body is alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is fiction, but suicide is a very real life problem. In December 2016, twelve year old Katelyn Nicole Davis live streamed hanging herself. :-( A recording of it went viral on Facebook and other social media, exposing many to a tragic video. (This incident and others like it pushed social media to better and more quickly detect and block such things.) Anyway, many wished they could have found her in time and helped her. Of course, what would happen if you were broadcasting a suicide attempt, and were actually saved in time? As this chapter shows, the video might still go viral, but now you’re still alive and forced to deal with the aftermath.


	4. Marissa - I’m not crazy

* * *

Fight, flight, or freeze are the three ways to deal with bad things in your life. Right now I’m being taken to the hospital in the back of an ambulance. That’s a very bad thing! I can’t fight or run away since I’m strapped down to this stretcher thing like a human sacrifice about to have her heart cut out. That leaves freeze. That’s easy to do, since again I can’t move. Normally I’d be freaking out about being tied down like this, however there’s only two women in the back with me, which helps a lot. They’re looking at me kindly, or at least the older woman is, which is nice since I basically attacked them. I hope I don’t get charged with assault or anything!

I test the waters. “So, I suppose I seemed like a crazy knife-wielding suicidal bitch back there?”

The younger woman sniffs at me while rubbing some lotion on her arm over the tooth marks where I bit her. “What do you think?”

God, I am such a waste of space! “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to. Well, ok, I did mean to, but that was only because, well, sometimes I just act, you know?”

The driver is talking on the radio with the hospital or whatever. I hear “fifty-one fifty” mentioned, and whatever that means, it can’t be good. I try talking to them again.

“You can’t tell my parents. Please don’t tell my parents! Fuck, my mom will make me wish I had jumped if she finds out I’ve been arrested or taken to the hospital.” Yes, I start crying again.

The older woman sighs and tries to comfort me. “We’re not the ones who decide that. There are rules and regulations for how this sort of thing gets handled. Our job is to make sure you’re safe, and it’s the people at the hospital who will evaluate your situation and determine what happens next.”

In spite of my complaining, I’m taken to the ER at the hospital. I get put into this room which says “Observation C” on the door. It’s completely empty except for a bed. The door is locked behind me, and I’m left alone. I feel like I’m being watched. Actually, I am. In the upper corner of the room is a camera. I give it the finger.

Is this a jail, a mental hospital, or what? I get bored easily, so within minutes I’m shouting and pounding at the door. It’s hard to get noticed, since there are crazy people in other rooms like mine pounding on their doors too. I have to go to the bathroom. Eventually, somebody opens the door, leads me to a closet sized bathroom, and then stands there looking at me. Hello, a little privacy please?

Nope, I’m not going to get any. I consider punching her in her ugly face, but a small voice inside tells me that wouldn’t be a good idea. See, I’m not completely out of control! Anyway, I cover myself with my hands while peeing. This is so embarrassing!

Back in my so-called room, there’s still nothing to do. I know it’s getting late, but they never turn the lights off. That’s right, the lights are kept on all fucking night. It’s hard for me to get to sleep even in my own bed at home, so I don’t get much if any shut-eye here. Besides, my mind is racing. How long am I going to be here? What’s my mom going to think?

* * *

Sometime the next morning, something finally happens. Some guy comes and asks me a few questions, but other than that barely pays any attention to me. He leaves after just a few minutes.

A few hours later, something else happens. Some people come and get me, and tell me that a bed has opened up in a nearby “place” that can help me. They try to make it sound nice, but I know what’s happening. I scream at them until they fess up that “place” means mental hospital. As before, my attempts to tell them that I’m not crazy fall on deaf ears. Apparently that guy I saw earlier was a shrink and determined I was a danger to myself and others. I do get them to say something when I ask about my mother. They said my mom has been contacted and told everything, which is bad because I really, really didn’t want that to happen. They also say my mother approved my being admitted to the funny farm, which is even worse. Apparently they said some shit to my mom like if you don’t choose to commit her by choice, we’ll commit her anyway, and then it will be that much harder for her to get released. That sounds like a scam to me, and one person who’s supposed to be protecting me fell for it.

I’m still trying to get over the shock of my mom throwing me under the bus, when things get worse. I’m led into yet another strange room. Two women who look like they should be police officers tell me to take all my clothes off. I’m already scared, and get even more so when they latch the door.

“What the fuck? No way! Get away from me you perverts!”

“Strip now girl, or you will be stripped!” I scream as loud as I can and retreat to the corner of the room. The women block me in, and don’t look like they care at all. One speaks to the other. “Go get Theodore and Jeffrey to help out here. Tell them we’ve got another non-compliant.”

I’m looking around for a weapon while trying not to faint. Before I can do anything else, the door unlocks from the outside, and another woman enters. She’s thin, Asian, has graying hair, and is like half a foot shorter than me. That last part is wow since I’m only 5’3”. Asian lady may be tiny, but she doesn’t mess around. “Rest of you, out. I will take care of this.” She seems to be in charge here since the others do as she says right away, with only a few questioning looks at her as they leave.

“You like some tea?” Without waiting for an answer she opens a cabinet and brings out two cups and tea bags. From a thermos she bought with her, she pours hot water into the cups. She takes one, and sits down in a chair. After that, she says nothing.

I’m still in the corner of the room, crouched like a trapped animal. I’m waiting for her to do something bad, but she’s just sipping her tea. I finally get up and join her. I could fling my hot tea in her face and try to run for it, but I just can’t bring myself to do it. She’s actually being nice to me.

Once I take a sip, she starts talking. “I try to tell them, they should be more understanding when doing this part. Some women, we have bad past experiences in this area.”

She looks at me as if wanting me to say something, but I keep quiet, so she continues. “In a hospital, people are always talking at you, telling you to do things. Doctors should listen more. Do you want to tell me anything? Like, what brought you here?”

“I’m here because I’m a loser fuck-up, that’s why!” I explain a little of what happened on the bridge the day before.

She looks mildly surprised. “That was you? I remember heavy traffic yesterday on Golden Gate Bridge. It made me late for 40 year anniversary dinner with my husband.”

Of course, whenever somebody’s nice to me I always have to fuck it up by hurting them. I try to apologize, and wish her a happy anniversary. I wonder what it would be like to be with somebody for that long?

We finish our tea, and she tells me I shouldn’t be so negative with myself. “Just because you fucked up, doesn’t mean you are fucked up.” Having tea with a little old Asian lady who isn’t afraid to swear isn’t what I expected being admitted to a mental hospital would be like. Oh yeah, being admitted. Soon we can’t put it off any longer, and have to get this over with.

“We have to check you for injury before admitting you. This is required. It’s not something we’re allowed to skip. I’m a doctor. Just treat this like your annual check-up. You do remember to get your annual physical, yes?”

Actually I don’t, but don’t say anything about that. I still hate it, and I’m still nervous as fuck, but I do take my clothes off. It helps that it’s a kind old woman with me, and that she’s wearing the white coat of a doctor. This whole thing reminds me of the fable about the wind and the sun trying to see who could get a man to remove his cloak first. The wind blew hard but he just held his cloak tighter. The sun shone until he was warm enough he chose to take it off.

She’s looking me over, nicely being quiet about the whole thing, and not staring at me like I’m some dancer in a strip club. Things seem to be going as well as they can.

Then she sees my self-harm scars.

I can tell by the look on her face that she’s just noticed them. I was so freaking out about everything else here I completely forgot all about that until just now. Oh great, another way I’ve fucked up here! Yesterday morning before going out to the bridge, I was so anxious I did some cutting. Nothing too serious, just a half dozen or so lines across each thigh. Nothing too deep, but enough to bleed. Yes, I was playing with fire by wearing a white dress soon afterward when I went out to the bridge, which would easily show the cuts if they later started to bleed again. The dress is also short enough that it barely covers the cuts, but I like living on the edge. Oops, bad pun there, considering what happened!

I’m getting teary eyed, yet again, and she’s trying to comfort me. “It’s not like you’re first girl to come through here who’s done that.” I don’t know whether to feel good or bad about that line, or about how she’s now scribbling a bunch in the little clipboard she’s holding while looking at me.

The classic saying known by all of us who cut is true: “They'll check your wrists, but not your thighs. They'll check your smile, but not your eyes.” I sometimes slice my wrists too, but I always keep that area covered with a bunch of bracelets. This is the first time I’ve ever really been caught. My mom doesn’t know, at least not yet. Nobody at school does either. My brothers found out, and I had to do and give them all kinds of stuff to keep them from telling.

I still don’t know her name, but Asian lady is still trying to comfort me, saying things like a hospital can be a good environment to deal with self-harming issues, and there are creams and such that can help cuts heal quickly. I like that she seems to give a fuck, but I’m still glad when we leave the room and the next thing happens: The giving up of your stuff.

Actually, I don’t like this part either. I’m not given my clothes back, but instead given a hospital gown thingy to wear. It’s ugly and itchy as fuck. They take away everything sharp, or anything that I could use to hang myself. My shoes don’t have laces, but if they did they would take them out. They take away my heart locket I found, because it’s a thin chain. I really don’t want to give it up, but they say they’ll keep it safe until I’m released. They better, or there will be fucking hell to pay!

* * *

So it’s time for me to go from the real hospital into the loony bin. This sucks so bad! I’m not crazy, and I’m going to be the only person in here who’s not. They wheel me in on a stretcher. Again, I’m strapped down like I’m going to be violent. Treating people like this is a good way to make someone become violent! This is so humiliating. I do have legs, you know.

Anyway, I’m wheeled inside, and with an echoing clang the doors close and are latched behind me. I’m now locked inside the funny farm, for who knows how long? Once inside, they let me go off the stretcher. I get up, and strut around like I own the place. I’m like Rorschach from “Watchmen” who said, “I'm not locked in here with you, you're locked in here with me!” Ok, who am I fucking kidding? I’m scared shitless and near tears, and about to panic.

The nurse with me puts a red band around my wrist, right next to my hospital bracelet, and tells me with good behavior I can get upgraded to yellow after a day which gives you more privileges and lets you do more things, and later still green which means you’re close to being released. This nurse acts (and looks) a lot like professor Minerva McGonagall from Harry Potter. She’s not mean, but I liked the Asian lady better. Anyway, she tells me she’ll show me to my room and give me a tour. Not that there’s much to see in here. Before she can do so, she gets called away for some reason. In a crisp voice she says she’ll be back in just a minute. Now I’m alone, abandoned by her, just like I was abandoned by my friends, my mother, and basically everybody else I’ve ever known.

Just like in “The Secret” where we create our own reality, I make a bad reality. Two tall and heavy girls who look like they could playing high school football on the boys’ team walk by. One of the girls seems angry and about to blow up. That wouldn’t be a problem, but she notices me and smiles. “Ah, fresh meat!” The other girl with her is silent but is looking around in different directions, like she’s seeing things that aren’t there.

“What do you want?” I try to sound brave, but my voice breaks. Seriously, it would be nice to get through just one fucking thing today without shedding tears.

“Aww, are you going to cry, widdle girl? What do we want? We just want to give you a nice welcome here.” She looks at me a moment, like a cat checking out a mouse before eating it alive, and then reaches out and holds a lock of my hair between two of her greasy fingers. “Wow, you have really long hair. You think you’re so much better than the rest of us, don’t you? That’s not going to fly if you want to live here. Hey Veronica, go get the scissors. Let’s make her hair a better length, shall we?”

Fuck, this is like the third time today people are attacking me! My heart’s been beating hard non-stop without rest for who knows how long. I wish I could say I told them to fuck off, or punched her in the face, or ran off, or yelled for help. It’s back to fight, flight, or freeze. I just freeze and do nothing, not even when my hair which I’ve basically been growing since birth is at stake.

A third girl shows up. I think she came out of one of the rooms nearby. She looks very different from the bullies! She has very red hair, very pale skin, and very green eyes. Not a pretty green like grass in sunlight, but an evil green like in the Matrix movies, or like with the Borg from Star Trek. However the most striking thing about her eyes isn’t the color. It’s that they’re so distant it’s scary. Actually it’s more than that, they’re utterly dead. Looking at her is like staring a corpse in the eye. If you’re wondering how someone can have blank eyes like a doll and yet be scary at the same time, then you’ve never seen movies like “Chucky” or “Coraline”.

“Both of you are going to leave her alone.” The new girl speaks in a low, rough voice, like she just woke up. Oh cool, she’s not joining in to gang up on me. Someone’s on my side, for once in my life! She’s taller than me by a couple of inches, but both the bullies are bigger than her. She also has a red band around her wrist, like I do. Bitch One and Bitch Two facing us both have yellow bands.

“Hey Veronica, this is the one I was telling you about, the one who did that video. Yeah, she’s That Girl. Listen Scarlet, I don’t know why you decided to leave your black hole, but mind your own business.” The bully flicks a fist an inch from her face. “Unless you want a piece of me too?”

Scarlet or whatever her name is doesn’t flinch, or even blink. She responds in a casual, quiet voice. “Susie, come here for a minute. Do you want to know something? I don’t care. I don’t even care what happens to me. That means there are no limits on what I can and will do. I think I shall…” I can’t hear all of what she says next, but I get the jist of it. Scarlet describes in a monotone voice exactly what it will feel like when she rips your eyeballs out. And, since the parts of your brain that do vision will no longer be getting input, her fingers digging into your sockets will be stuck there replaying in your brain over and over for the rest of your miserable life. I do hear how she finishes: “Now, do either of you want to fight someone who isn’t afraid to die?”

Scarlet holds up her arms at this point, and I gasp. I couldn’t see this before, since her arms were by her sides, but her forearms are covered in horrible long lines of fresh black stitches, making her arms look like they belong to Frankenstein. I’ve done my share of self-harm, but nothing like this! Unlike me, this Scarlet must have really been trying to kill herself.

Her voice isn’t angry, and what’s scary is she isn’t even trying to be threatening. This Scarlet is like a train coming at you. Step off the tracks or you die. Nothing personal about it. She doesn’t say anything else, but just stares at the bullies. They look shocked.

“Geez, That Girl really is insane. Come on Veronica, this isn’t fun anymore.” They stalk off down the hall.

Yay, they’re gone! However now it’s just the two of us. Scarlet turns and faces me with her intensely blank eyes for a moment, and I freeze. What now? Is she going to kill me? Is she going to hold me down, cover my mouth so I can’t scream, and bite off my fingers one by one? After a few more seconds of staring at me, she speaks.

“Hello. My name is Brin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some say you should never cry while being psychologically evaluated, because they’ll take that as a sign of being mentally ill. Put somebody like Marissa who often cries in a terrifying situation like being dragged off to the hospital, and the results are to be expected. (Of course, if you’re in a really bad place and are hoping to get admitted, crying can be a way of communicating you really need help.)


	5. Brin - Waiting for an opening

* * *

Life contains certain moments which can be life changing. Such moments can be considered as junction points along one’s personal timeline, in which the decision made at that point may significantly affect the course of one’s life in the future. Normally, I couldn’t care less if some random girl is being tormented by bullies. Nevertheless, I did step in, and introduced myself, but the full ramifications of this action remain to be seen. I did so for two related reasons:

Reason one is this girl is going to be my roommate. This ward has a dozen double rooms, each of which has two beds. Up until now there have been 23 patients total, which is information I’ve gleaned from overhearing conversations among the staff. The only half empty room is my own, which means the only remaining place for this new girl is in my room. The previous girl who stayed with me was so quiet and drugged out that she never talked. Of course, I never wanted to talk to anybody before now.

Reason two is that it’s time for me to become more proactive. Upon being admitted, I was, quite frankly, catatonic. I wouldn’t ever leave my room for any group activities, for mealtime, or anything at all for that matter. I wasn’t openly rebellious or resisting in the manner that some girls are. If staff came to get me I would go with them, and if they put food in front of me I would eat it, but I wouldn’t do these things on my own initiative. I didn’t and still don’t care about anything in life, which is why I seek to terminate it. Withdrawing was acceptable while getting used to the idea that my first suicide attempt catastrophically failed, however if I want to kill myself then I need to be out and about more. That means interacting with people, starting with my new roommate. Committing suicide inside an environment specially designed to prevent people from doing so is definitely going to be a challenge, but I’m certain that I will be able to find a way.

Also, I have to note that this girl is beautiful. Physical appearances are completely irrelevant, but I don’t think anybody can deny that she is, quite frankly, absolutely stunning by societal standards. Her long, straight, thick, ink black hair plunges down to her buttocks, while smoothly flowing around her body like in hair product commercials. Even wearing a hospital gown she looks totally on fleek, like a movie star who just stepped off a set. I haven’t been paying attention to what I look like recently, but I’m sure it wouldn’t be considered very good.

Anyway, the new girl is looking at me apprehensively with a very expressive face. I suppose it’s up to me to commence with societal standards of social interaction. “You must be Marissa. You and I are going to be roommates.”

“Wow, you know my name! Are you, like, psychic?”

“There’s no reliable evidence that psychic abilities exist. But hospital bands do exist. I simply read your name off of yours.”

Marissa has been nervously tugging at her hospital band, like it’s uncomfortable and she’s trying to take it off. I’ve been completely ignoring mine since I got here two weeks ago. Hers reads:

Rodriguez, Marissa Isabelle  
DOB: 07/11/2002 (15f)  
Dr. Shuang Chen  
MRN: 00137692

“I’ll be 16 next month.” Marissa seems proud of that fact. She then grabs my wrist and looks at my hospital band. Some people would object to being physically touched like this without permission, but I don’t react. Anyway, my bracelet reads:

Nolan, Brin Ophelia  
DOB: 01/22/2001 (17f)  
Dr. Shuang Chen  
MRN: 00137557

“My real name is indeed Brin. Scarlet is a nickname.”

Speaking of names, yes, as my hospital band indicates, my middle name is Ophelia. Yes, that means my “mother” named me after the girl in Shakespeare’s “Hamlet” who commits suicide by drowning herself in a river. Yes, drowning was one of the ways I considered terminating my own life, but discarded for obvious reasons.

Marissa looks at me. “So, um, if Susie hadn’t backed off, would you have really, um…”

I look back. “Are you sure you want to know the answer to that question?”

Marissa seems taken aback with that response. I take an alternate approach. “Don’t worry, Susie wouldn’t have cut your hair. They don’t let us have scissors or anything remotely sharp in here. Believe me, I’ve searched.”

Corinne, the nurse who brought her in and had to leave “for just a minute”, finally comes back. She was completely unaware of the confrontation that took place. First she glances at me as if in surprise that I’m actually up and talking to somebody. She apologizes for the delay in a fast voice, talking about how the ward is understaffed today. Corinne describes various things and a large number of rules, the most serious one being that if you misbehave in a significant fashion then you’ll be sent to a high security ward. That isn’t an idle threat. A couple girls have acted violent or attempted suicide during my time here, and they were taken to a different ward which apparently has a much higher level of patient monitoring. Wards don’t interact with each other, which means we never saw them again. If I’m going to kill myself in here, I’m only going to get one chance to do so.

There are, I understand, at least ten different wards within this building. The ward I’m in is for 12-17 year old girls, and has a moderate security rating. There’s also the aforementioned high security ward for the truly dangerous or insane. There’s a parallel pair of wards for the boys. Similarly, there’s another four wards covering a similar set of gender and security combinations for adults 18 years of age and over. There are also two more co-ed wards for children 11 and under. Finally, there are a few non-inpatient areas for people in programs in which they just visit the building during the day. San Francisco is a large city, so has similarly large psychiatric facilities. Presumably other hospitals, especially in smaller towns, conduct their affairs differently.

Anyway, Corinne eventually leaves us alone, and Marissa is examining our room. There isn’t much to see. Two beds, with rubbery sheets and coverings that can’t be used to fashion a noose. A small table next to each bed, that’s bolted to the floor so it can’t be picked up and thrown. A window that doesn’t open, but looks out upon another gray building. The fact the window doesn’t open seems to have engaged her attention. Marissa doesn’t look pleased, and she turns and faces me with an annoyed look on her face.

“Geez, it’s hot as fuck in here!”

“That’s true, for two reasons. One, it’s summer during a warm weather period, and two, perhaps more importantly, the air conditioning isn’t working. It stopped working a few days after I got here. They haven’t fixed it yet. No, they don’t have an estimate.”

It’s interesting to actually be talking to someone, instead of withdrawn as I have been since I first arrived here. Although I’ve never been a highly social person, perhaps this Marissa and I will be able to have intelligent conversation. She is now inspecting our tiny bathroom, which is basically just a toilet, a sink, and a shower stall in very close proximity with each other. She steps out of the bathroom, now looking even more annoyed than before.

“This place sucks. Seriously, I can’t even! Where the fuck am I supposed to masturbate?”

Wow, ok. Marissa speaks with candor, I’ll give her that. I suppose she does have a point. Not that I care about such things, but how does one fulfill sexual desires when confined to a mental hospital for extended periods? Anyway, I can definitely conclude one thing: This Marissa that I’ve chosen to interact with is very different from me and has a unique personality.

* * *

There are three general types of patients in a psychiatric ward: “cutters”, “anas”, and “schizos”. Cutters are people who cut on themselves or otherwise self-harm, which includes those who have attempted or idealized suicide, and the depressed in general. Both Marissa and I are in this category. Anas are the anorexic, which includes the bulimic or any other eating disorder, and beyond that obsessive compulsive behaviors in general. Schizos are the classically mentally ill who hear voices, hallucinate, and have grandiose delusions and such. There’s quite a bit of overlap, for example many anas and schizos self-harm, but each patient can be considered primarily within one category. Some facilities specialize with particular types of patients, but this one appears to take all three in roughly equal measure. Within this ward the cutters tend to be in the lowest room numbers near the front desk, so they can be watched more easily. As one of the patients considered highest risk, I’ve been placed in room #1, and have been since I was first admitted. The schizos tend to be at the far end so their unusual behaviors are less likely to disturb others, and the anas are in the middle. Often every room is occupied, and new patients go to whatever room is available. Indeed, usually whenever one girl gets discharged somebody new is in her former bed a few hours later. However they do occasionally shuffle people around and move them to more appropriate rooms.

Marissa appears to have made herself at home, at least as much as it’s possible to do so in an establishment like this. I just told her that this ward contains 12 to 17 year old girls. Although I can’t classify it as intelligent conversation, Marissa is quite imaginative in how she chooses to process information. “You know, being here it’s like we’re in ‘The Hunger Games’. At least if 18 year-olds were sent here too. Because, you know, you get reaped for the Games if you’re between 12 and 18 years old.”

It seems Marissa is quite talkative. “Or wait, I know! It’s like we’re magical students at Hogwarts, if 11 year-olds were allowed here. Because year one students there are 11 and year sevens are 17.”

I haven’t watched or read all these fictional stories that it seems like Marissa is into, however I do understand the basic premises of the more popular ones. Therefore, I can at least participate in the conversation. “Given those two options, I would say that being here is more like ‘The Hunger Games’, because of its focus upon death. Besides, in the Hunger Games the tributes are watched continually. As a case in point, somebody should be arriving here any second now. Patients here get checked on every 15 minutes, day and night.”

I glance at the clock on the wall. It’s almost 10:15am. Sure enough, right on cue one of the staff enters the room.

“Hello Donna.” I’ve never acknowledged the staff before, but I do so for the first time now.

Donna is a forty-something black woman standing at least six feet tall, who looks like she should be a Green Beret in the United States Army Special Forces as opposed to an orderly in a psychiatric ward for teenage girls. She has very short hair, and thin but whip-like arms corded with lean muscle. Many people, even much of the staff, find me unnerving to deal with or even look at. No, I don’t bother to discourage them from their views. Donna is the only one here who has no problems facing me and even looking me in the eye. She’s not aggressive or confrontational, but rather just has an unresisting calmness, like you would expect from a judo master. Actually, she may very well be a skilled martial artist. She accepts what’s before her, whether positive or negative, without reacting or getting emotional about it. A Green Beret is not an inaccurate comparison either, because I’ve seen her deal with unruly patients. Sometimes girls get violent, have a bad reaction to their medication, or act out for some other reason, and without fail Donna is always able to quickly subdue them. I have yet to see or hear of anybody landing a single punch, scratch, or bite upon her.

Donna acknowledges my greeting, however, like Corinne, she’s appears somewhat surprised that I’m actually talking to people now. She introduces herself to Marissa and goes over a few more things. Finally she jots a few things on a clipboard before nodding and leaving to check on the next room. Every 15 minutes they record what each patient is doing, and what their apparent mood is. For example, there are checkboxes for feelings such as “happy”, “calm”, and “upset”, along with activities like “sleeping”, “socializing”, and “playing a game”.

Anyway, this is actually the first time I’ve said anything to Donna in two weeks. When I was first admitted, I was in enough of a daze, which the medication they gave me probably exacerbated, that I freely admitted to the staff that I was suicidal, and that I fully intended to find a way to kill myself shortly. Basically, it felt like I was under Sodium Pentothal, more colloquially known as truth serum. I know I wasn’t actually under that particular drug, but it was close to what I estimate that experience would be like. This should go without saying, but openly telling the staff in a psychiatric ward that you are going to kill yourself is not a recommended course of action, assuming you actually seek to do so and aren’t just making an emphatic plea for help, because that just means you’re going to get watched extremely closely. Donna said she appreciated my honesty, but that she’s never had a girl kill herself while she’s been on duty. Apparently quite a few have tried, over the years that she’s worked here. I suppose some might take Donna’s declaration as a challenge and try to kill themselves just to spite her. However my intention is to cease existing, and not to prove myself to anybody.

If I’m going to kill myself in this ward, then I am going to wait until Donna is off duty, because in addition to her physical talents, Donna also seems to have a natural ability to sense where and when her presence is needed. For example, if Donna had been here a couple hours ago when Marissa was first admitted, I highly doubt Susie and Veronica would have been able to bully her for more than a few seconds before Donna would notice and quickly put a stop to it.

Since I seemed to have no qualms about telling the staff about my intentions, I see no reason why I shouldn’t tell my new roommate about it as well. It turns out that Marissa is one of the few who hasn’t seen and wasn’t aware of my suicide video. I’m not ashamed to admit that it is somewhat refreshing to not be recognized for once.

“Oh yeah, my brothers and guys at school were talking about this gory video making the rounds and were showing it to each other, but I didn’t want anything to do with that. So, wow, that was you?”

We talk some more about the subject. Marissa, to her credit, doesn’t judge, although her eyes are rather wide while looking at me. After a while, she uses another one of her analogies from movies and television and says I’m like a caged velociraptor from the original “Jurassic Park” movie, systematically testing every point for a weak spot, searching and waiting for an opening. If that’s true, then perhaps after I find a cunning method to secretly or quickly terminate myself, then Marissa and the staff here will use the classic line from the Jurassic Park movie to refer to me. The quotation, which was spoken by a hunter when one of the velociraptors sneaked up behind him, is so iconic that even I’m aware of it: “clever girl”.

* * *

That evening, during visiting hours, Marissa’s family comes to visit her for the first time. I would expect that she would be happy to see them. For one thing, they can bring her some of her own clothes, so she no longer has to wear a hospital gown. However, instead of excited, she seems really anxious, and beyond that ashamed. That’s saying a lot, since Marissa’s natural state of being seems to be one of anxiety.

“What up, sis!”

Two boys enter, both of who are approximately my age, and both of who seem to be in the “gangsta” stage of adolescence. They are followed by a woman carrying a bag of clothing who reminds me of a Hispanic version of Mary, the woman who watched me when I was first recovering in the hospital. Marissa has two older brothers, she told me earlier today, and both of them have come to visit. I, in contrast, am an only child.

Marissa’s mother gives her a kiss on the cheek, a warm hug for a minute, and then immediately launches into what could only be described as a vicious tirade. She’s asking questions such as how could you do such a thing, do you realize how bad this makes our family look, why do you always have a need to attract attention, and do you realize how expensive it’s going to cost our family to have you taken care of in here?

Marissa seems to shrink down within herself under her mother’s critical barrage. I could potentially speak up and say something in her defense, but that might just make things worse. Besides, do I even care? While considering the best course of action, if any, I manage to catch her eye, and I glance toward the door. Marissa nods and also motions toward the door. I’m not the best at giving or parsing non-verbal communication methods, but I believe I’m being asked to leave the room, or at least she doesn’t mind if I do leave the room, therefore I proceed to do so.

Outside in the hall, I can still clearly hear the cacophony coming from room #1. Marissa is crying and yelling back now. It would appear that the hospital doesn’t supervise family visits like this. I’m unsure of the precise policy in this area, since I have yet to receive any visitors. My list of friends is very short, and my “mother” is still out of town. Yes, I’ve always been what’s known as a “latchkey kid”.

I move farther away. There’s nothing I care to do, so I just enter and stand in the day room. The day room is a room with a few sofas and a television that patients frequently occupy when no official activities are scheduled and when they don’t want to be in their own rooms. Nobody takes notice or even looks up when I enter. I’m capable of doing nothing for long periods of time, since I never get bored. However, doing so causes the physical sensations within my body to become more apparent.

In the first few days after the bandages were removed from my arms, there was a strong ache arising from deep within my limbs, which I have to admit was uncomfortable since there was absolutely no way to avoid it. Now this inner pain has been replaced with an intense itching sensation in the area around my stitches, and it is producing a strong physical urge (which I ignore) to scratch my arms and legs until they bleed. I was given a newer type of absorbable sutures, which don’t need to be manually removed.

I look around for something to focus on, and lying upon a small end table I see a stack of papers bound together. It’s a manual of hospital policy, patient rights, and related subjects. This might be useful. I need to know exactly how this hospital works if I am to find some way to outsmart it and kill myself. I speed read the whole thing.

After a period of time has passed, I return to our end of the hall and stop just short of my room, to detect if Marissa’s family visit is still taking place. It is. The shouting match has more or less ended, but they seem to be talking about something else. The first thing I overhear is the following sentence:

“Oh my god sis, your roommate’s That Girl?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A psych ward’s top priority is to stabilize you and keep you from hurting yourself or other people, and any real treatment for the conditions that brought you there comes later if at all. As Brin demonstrates, just because she’s inpatient that hasn’t stopped her from wanting to kill herself.


	6. Marissa - Suicide Squad

* * *

Within one day of meeting, Brin and I are braiding each others’ hair.

Brin has this cool red hair. And it’s not dyed! Real reddish hair, and not just the orangeish brown thing that many have when they call themselves “redheads”. But when I first saw it, it was hanging all limp. We can’t have that now, not in my new room! I’m not crazy like the others here are, but as long as I am here I’m going to make this place home. It wasn’t like Brin was smelling bad or anything like that. She showers every day and sort of combs her hair, but it’s like she doesn’t really care about it. Or anything else, for that matter. Anyhoo, we’ve got to fix that! So I offer to do her hair for her, and surprise she accepts!

What surprises me again is that Brin then offers to braid my hair in return. With her arms hurt like that, can she even use her hands right? Besides, no offense, but I didn’t think she was the type who knew much about hair, but sure let’s see what she does. I feel I can trust her. Anyhoo, with only slightly shaky hands, she actually does a cool quad braid with four strands, that’s round and not flat like most braids. Brin says my hair is shiny and silky. Ha, I wish! Everybody says my hair is nice, but I hate it.

The next thing to fix is our clothes. The hospital gown scrub thingies they make you wear when you’re first dragged in here are ugly as fuck. It was nice when my mom brought me a few outfits when she first visited. However, Brin is wearing a hospital gown. Or rather, is still wearing one of those gowns even though she’s been here a few weeks already. Ugly clothes have got to go, and I really want Brin to like me, so I offer to let her borrow some of mine. We have similar body types, and she’s only a couple inches taller than me, so my clothes fit her. Brin didn’t seem to mind being the only person here wearing a hospital gown, or at least she never said anything about it. But she took me up on my offer, and even thanked me.

So, a few things about Brin. She’s actually kind of creepy! Sometimes, when we’re in our room on our beds, I see her looking at me, the plasticy can’t-hang-yourself-with-it bed sheet pulled up around her face, and one eye staring across at me like the Eye of Sauron from “Lord of the Rings”. Maybe Brin isn’t the best person to hang with, but what can I say? I like “bad boys” and “bad girls”. Besides, it’s not like I can get away from her, we being roommates and all, so I should stay on her good side. Besides, Brin seems to get me! She knew to leave our room when my mom was here. Oh my god, I was so red faced then!

But Brin isn’t just creepy, she’s downright mysterious. Most people look at her and think, wow, she’s That Girl who did the suicide video, and just look at those deep scars. However there’s more! I saw her bare back when she was changing the other day. There are a bunch more scars across her back, really old ones. They’re not from cutting, but instead it looks like she’s been whipped, in like a really strong way that broke the skin. Gee, and I thought I’ve been abused. I wonder what her childhood was like? No, I’m not going to ask her. I may be stupid, but I’m not that stupid!

So, being in a mental hospital is kind of like school. There are tons of rules, a daily schedule, and the food sucks. There are also popular and unpopular people. It’s kind of twisted, but the worse your abuse and the worse your scars, the more “street cred” you have around here. I’m sure the staff doesn’t like it, but it’s true. Anyhoo, Brin seems to be on top, since she’s one of the oldest girls, and has the most visible scars. Brin’s also been here longer than most, and of course there’s the whole suicide video fame thing that it seems like most have seen already. Also, Brin now has me doing her hair and clothes, so she looks fab too. She does clean up pretty well! Anyhoo, Brin said that most stay here until their insurance runs out. She says her family has a “platinum health plan” or something like that, so can cover her staying here for a really long time. No, she doesn’t seem bothered by the thought of being here for who knows how long.

Anyhoo, if Brin and I are the most “popular” ones here, how do those mean girls that attacked me feel about it? Well, we only saw Susie and Veronica one more time, the day after I got here. Brin just wordlessly looked at Susie, pointed two fingers at her own eyes, then pointed at Susie’s face. They quickly left the room and that was the last we ever saw them. I hear they were discharged soon after, especially since they both had been upgraded to green wristbands. Brin said they were here on a “72 hour hold”. Anyhoo, it’s kind of fun being the bully instead of the bullied for once!

Another thing about Brin is that she’s smart. As in really, really smart! She’s like Seven of Nine from “Star Trek: Voyager”. Or rather, she’s like a female Sheldon from “The Big Bang Theory”, but minus the big ego. Although she does correct me after I say that her arms and legs look like Frankenstein. She said that should instead be Dr. Frankenstein’s monster. Not that I ever read the book. Or wait, actually I think we were supposed to read that in school the other year, but I don’t remember anything about it. I’ve always sucked in school, but at least I’ve never been held back a grade.

Brin isn’t just acting like a smarty pants or using big words. She actually makes a good teacher. Since everybody here is school age, we don’t just sit around all day, but have a few hours of schooling. Of course, it’s summer vacation now, so most of us aren’t missing anything. There’s a teacher who does school time, and who tries to give us things right for our ages, but she likes it when we work together. Anyhoo, Brin helps other students with their school work, kind of like a second teacher. She doesn’t seem to care about things or people normally, but the classroom is one place where she actually talks. Whether it’s a 12 year old who can barely read, or a 17 year old thinking about college, Brin doesn’t seem to mind helping out, and actually seems to give good advice.

In addition to school time, we have a few group activities during the day too. You’re supposed to go to group, but not everybody does. Brin had been skipping them all until I showed up, so they’re new for both of us. That’s why Brin was still had a red wristband when we met, because you have to go to group if you want to get a yellow band. Anyway, in groups we do or learn things, such how to deal with stress, art or pet therapy, and stuff like that. For example, in one group we were to come up with positive words to describe ourselves, and positive words to describe each other. Brin said I’m impetuous and impertinent. I have no idea what either of those words mean, but they sound cool!

In another group we were learning about different ways people are on the inside. “Jungian archetypes” is what Brin called them. Anyhoo, the hippie lady running the group talked about how these archetype thingies are similar to astrology, which then made people want to know their charts. I love astrology, and I know my chart! I’m a Cancer, which fits since I’m an ocean of emotion, and that’s the truth baybee! I also have my moon in loud and wild Leo, and artsy and graceful Libra rising. That fits too. Brin was saying things like: “There’s no evidence that astrological influences exist. When a baby is born, even the doctor’s body produces more gravitational influence than most planets.”

Brin may be smart, but sometimes she can be a wet blanket. I’m sure there’s spiritual energies out there that we just can’t see! Anyhoo, hippie lady is doing our charts on her laptop. Brin stops a moment and says she believes she’s an Aquarius with her moon in Capricorn and Scorpio rising. Sure enough, when her astrology chart comes up, she’s right! I’m like how the fuck do you know your moon and rising sign if you haven’t ever had your chart done before? Brin then explains:

“I don’t know astrology, but I do know celestial mechanics. I know the order of the signs of the zodiac and their approximate dates, so I already knew I’m an Aquarius. I also happen to know that I was born two days before a new moon. The moon takes 29½ days to orbit the earth, which means two days before early Aquarius must be in Capricorn, so that’s my moon’s location. The so-called rising sign is on the eastern horizon when you’re born, and with twelve signs total the rising sign changes approximately every two hours. I was born a few hours after midnight, and given that the sun rose around five to six hours after my birth that time of year, that means my rising sign should be three signs before Aquarius, which is Scorpio. Ergo, I’m an Aquarius with a Capricorn moon and Scorpio rising.”

Wow, that totally didn’t make any sense to me. But I do know one thing. My roommate is, like, some fucking genius, and I’ve never met anybody like her before.

* * *

So, Brin may be smart, but she also defines “resting bitch face”. I have yet to see her laugh or smile. Not even once! But “resting bitch face” doesn’t cover it either, because Brin doesn’t really look angry or even annoyed. Of course that means it’s up to me to cheer her up. If anyone can do this, I can!

After about a week here, we have art group. Because we are painting this day, Brin switches back to a hospital gown for the hour, because she doesn’t want to get paint on the dress I loaned her. Aww, that’s sweet! The other thing to know is we are given snacks at this time. The food here sucks big time, but occasionally there’s something nice. Like today we get soda pop, which is cool. So anyway, we each have a can. Brin goes to the bathroom, and while she’s away I think of something fun to do. I take her Coke and shake it up really, really hard. The older lady running the group has her back turned, so nobody calls me out on it. It’s warm in this room (remember, no air conditioning) so this is going to work great!

Anyhoo, Brin comes back, not expecting a thing. She pops the top, and gets a huge spray of Coke right in her face. Literally half the can pours down her front. I’m serious, she gets it all over herself! I try to keep from laughing, but can’t stop myself. I’m just about rolling on the floor, but no I don’t want to do that because it’s all sticky since there’s a bunch of Coke on it now. Ha ha! However, Brin does not smile or laugh, and I realize I probably just majorly stepped over the line here. This is somebody who rips your eyeballs out when you get on her bad side, or at least says she would. Brin’s icy gaze turns to me, and my laughter catches in my throat.

“This was you.” She says it, and doesn’t ask it.

I just nod. Brin leaves to wash up and change, but before doing so she says quietly: “I am going to get you back.” She pauses. “And I know just what I’m going to do to you.”

What follows is some of the worst days of my life. And that’s saying something! What is Brin going to do to me? Is she going to kill me, hurt me, embarrass me, or what? I say I’m sorry, but she still says she’s going to get me back. I ask her what she’s going to do, but she just ignores me or tells me to wait and see. I’m like in tears just entering our room, because who knows if there’s tacks on the floor, poop in my bed, a bucket of paint ready to fall from the ceiling, or something like that? My anxiety is bad enough as it is, and this just brings it to a whole new level.

Finally, a few days later, Brin looks at the clock then says, “Ok, three days have passed. I’ve gotten you back now, so we’re even.”

“Huh? You… you have? But wait, what did you do?”

Then it dawns on me. Brin didn’t do anything at all! She didn’t need to. She just told me she was going to get me back, and let me worry myself half to death. Wow, well played! Brin really knows how to get inside your head. Lesson learned, don’t fuck with her! I bet she was a professional torturer in a past life that could get enemy agents to talk with ease.

After this, things went back to normal with us. Well, as close to “normal” as things can be with girls like us, in a place like this. Brin seems to have forgotten all about the Coke can thing, and never brings it up again. I’m happy to not have to worry about it anymore. Perhaps we even like each other more, or at least we’ve gotten to know each other better. It’s like when people fight, then make up, and then are closer than ever due to the shared experience.

A few days later, Brin and I are in our room, just talking about our lives and our issues. Brin’s not the most talkative person, but she does share things with me and pay attention to me without asking for something in return. That’s more than most people do! Anyhoo, I see something in her nickname, and call it out. “You know, Scarlet’s a good name for you, not just because of your red hair, but because you let yourself get many scars.”

Brin looks up and stares at me intently, and I worry I might have crossed a line with her again. It turns out she doesn’t mind at all.

“That’s quite a clever observation. I never thought about it that way before.” She pauses, thinking for a second, then looks back at me. “Waterfall is a good name for you, not just because you cry a lot and have long hair, but because you almost did fall from the Golden Gate Bridge into the water.”

With that, Scarlet and Waterfall, our two nicknames, just became a lot more meaningful to us. Of course, we then put our two names together, to get “Scarlet Waterfall”. In the next art group, we took a sheet of black paper, and drew a waterfall made of dripping blood on it. Together we added a bunch of gore to it, like knives, severed heads, and detached eyeballs pouring over the edge in a shower of spraying blood and guts. It was a lot of fun! We taped it to the wall by the door to our room, and it stayed there for about 15 minutes before Corinne came and took it down and gave us a lecture about “appropriate content and behavior”. Ha ha! Later we made another picture on black paper, and drew just a waterfall in red ink. This scarlet waterfall wasn’t taken down, and stayed up by the door to our room for a long time.

Now that we are really into our nicknames Scarlet and Waterfall, we then try to get other people to join with their own nicknames, starting with the girls in room #2 next to ours. It’s like in the DC Comics movie “Suicide Squad” in which a team of misfit antiheroes is put together, and each has their own cool name and special power. I’m just trying to create a decent fam here! However, it doesn’t work out as well as we wanted. Some think the idea is dumb, some are too scared of Brin and me, some are too spaced out or too tired to do anything, and some like the idea but leave the hospital a day or two later. So the end result is it’s just Brin and me, who together are the Scarlet Waterfall.

* * *

So, I just have one thing to say: Being on medication sucks. Like, big time! The doctors and their squad decide what medication you should be on, and you don’t have a choice in the matter. We have our daily meds, and you have to take them at the counter and show your mouth after you swallow. That’s to make sure you aren’t trying to hide them, then flush them down the toilet later or save them up so you can overdose. It looks like they check Brin closer than most, but Brin just quietly takes her meds without reacting or anything.

Anyhoo, being on meds is fucking horrible! They mess with your head and make you feel like shit. Some meds keep you awake, and some make you tired as all fuck. You know when you’re so tired you just can’t get out of bed? This is like that only ten times worse! There’s also horrible anxiety about not being in control of your own body and mind. Sometimes girls have a bad reaction to their meds and Donna or whoever drags them off to the “time out room”. Yes, there is a padded wall room here, with a bed with straps on it to hold you down. I was able to peek inside it once, although the walls aren’t the classic white but instead pink. Brin says that pink walls have been scientifically proven to help quiet people down.

One of Brin’s many superpowers is that she seems to not be affected by meds. No matter what she takes, she still acts the same way. Seriously, she’s been given various “happy pills”, injections, and other shit and she’s still the same old Brin. But at the same time, that’s not entirely true. I know Brin’s affected, in spite of her “I’m so tough I’m not affected by anything” act that she puts on. I’m not very smart, but one thing I do know is what it’s like to hurt. I can tell that Brin’s hurting in like a major serious way, even if she won’t show it or even admit it. Seriously, otherwise she wouldn’t be planning to kill herself.

But it’s more than just the meds. You’re locked in here, with zero privacy, and can’t leave. Other than a few things from home, everything you eat, use, or play with is provided by the staff. And that stuff often isn’t good either. The food hasn’t gotten any better. I’m serious, licking Donald Trump’s asshole has to taste better than the slop they give you here! Maybe they do that on purpose so you’ll hate this place and want to get out of here all the more? We run out of things here too. Corinne often complains about the hospital being underfunded. For example, right now there are no tampons. This mental hospital is padded in more ways than one. Ha ha, I’m funny! I was talking with Brin about this, and she’s like: “If you want to avoid getting blood all over everything, then I’m probably not the best person to come to for advice about that matter.” Ha ha, Brin can be funny too!

If the days here are painful, the nights are even worse. I have a really hard time getting to sleep. It was bad enough for me before I came here. When I do sleep, I have wild dreams. Nightmares mostly. I’m often being chased, or attacked, or worse. Brin is so lucky! She seems to go to sleep quickly and wake up at the same time every day. She does complain about having the same dream every night, muttering about crows chasing her or something. I wonder what’s up with that?

The other thing you deal with here are the shrinks. We each see a psych doctor once a week, who talks to us about our case and what we need to work on and shit like that. I try to tell them I’m not crazy and shouldn’t be here, but they don’t believe me. They try to act all friendly and say just the right things to you, but I’m not buying it. One week I’ve had enough of everything, and I say what’s on my mind:

“If you can make me feel better, you can fuck me! In my vag or up my ass, take your pick! I’m serious, and you can do it without a condom too!” It was fucking hilarious to see the young male shrink I was with quickly leave the room and go ask others what to do. Yeah, you better run, bitch! I did get in trouble for that one, but it was worth it.

One thing the staff tells us is that “your time here is what you make of it”. They warn us that some patients treat being in the hospital like a slumber party. Guess what? Brin and I are those patients! Brin doesn’t seem to care about ever leaving or “getting better”, and I want to make the best of things and am desperate to have a little fun. If my mom is going to have me sent here, then fuck you all I’ll be mental for you!

* * *

Some evenings we have movie night. We get to watch a movie, instead of just whatever’s on TV in the day room. Sometimes they even ask us what we want to watch. So Corinne asks if anybody has a movie they’d like to see. I laugh and say we should watch “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest”. She says that a classic movie about escaping from a mental hospital isn’t appropriate for our ages and situation, and asks for something else. I then say we should watch “Girl, Interrupted”. Corinne glares at me and asks if anybody else has any suggestions.

Brin jumps in and says we should watch “A Clockwork Orange”. Ha ha, Brin really does get me! Corinne threatens to take away our movie rights and send us to our rooms if we don’t behave. Brin then boldly suggests “Sucker Punch”, which it looks like Corinne has never heard of because I totally thought we were going to get in trouble for that. Instead Corinne just says they don’t have it in their video library, and that maybe something friendly like Disney would be appropriate since there are 12 year olds here. Even though we didn’t get in trouble, Corinne is still looking at us icily and her face is frozen in a… Ah hah!

“Frozen!” I blurt out.

That’s a popular Disney movie, and nobody else comes up with anything better, so we watch “Frozen”. It’s probably my favorite movie ever! I’ve seen it several times already. Brin has never seen it, but she watches it intently like she’s studying for a school test. Right away I think that Brin is a lot like Elsa from the film in many ways. Both Elsa and Brin are powerful and controlled and careful and full of secrets. Me, I’m totally an Anna! Not like one of the “anas” or anorexia girls here, but the character Anna from the movie. Both Anna and I are wild and fun and fall in love easily and stuff. Brin agrees Elsa and Anna aren’t unlike ourselves, when I tell her my feelings. Anyhoo, watching “Frozen” was great! The only bad thing about it is now many are humming “Let It Go” and other songs from it nonstop. Some people here have the obsessive compulsive illness thing going on, and that means it’s twice as bad now as it was in school back when the movie first came out.

So yeah, about popular subjects: One more rule they have here is that you’re not supposed to talk about suicide or self-harm. Of course, that’s the only thing we really want to talk about. But guess what? Unless the staff are right next to you, they can’t overhear what we’re saying. And I’ve never been the type to follow rules. Anyhoo, it’s a couple weeks into our stay when Brin and I finally get around to really sharing our stories that led us here. Not just a little bit, but the whole thing. Brin tells her whole suicide attempt story, and what it was like surviving and having your video go viral. I talk about my whole day, from before I got to the Golden Gate Bridge, through my time over the railing on the edge, and up until I got sent here and met Brin.

She quietly watches me the whole time. When I’m done talking, I don’t like what she says next.

“Thank you for telling me your story. Too bad it’s completely bullshit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story takes place in the summer of 2018, which you can tell in the previous chapter from the girls’ birth dates and ages on their hospital bracelets. As a result, “Frozen II” and its previews haven’t been released yet, so the sequel doesn’t play a role here.


	7. Brin - The truth hurts

* * *

Those who know me soon realize that I rarely, if ever, swear. It’s not that I have any moral qualm against speaking profane words, but I just don’t think it adds anything functional to effective communication. This is in contrast to Marissa, who’s quite the potty mouth. However, I do suppose that means whenever I do swear, it’s all the more impactful. Marissa is looking flabbergasted, perhaps because I just denied her story, or perhaps because she just heard me say a naughty word for the first time.

“Oh, I’m sure the events of what you told me are all factual. It’s the motivation that’s inaccurate. The whole ‘I wasn’t actually suicidal’ shtick, that’s just wrong, even if you don’t want to admit it to yourself. Speaking of which, your ‘I’m the only one here not mentally ill’ attitude that you keep on repeating should really be discarded as well, but that’s a different issue.” Marissa starts to say something, but I speak over her.

“People say I’m intelligent, but if there’s one thing I not only know but have personal experience with, it’s what it’s like to be suicidal. And beyond that, I, perhaps more than anybody, know what it’s like to make a big public spectacle out of a suicide attempt.” Marissa is looking upset and tries to say something again, but I keep going.

“I have one question: What were you wearing when you almost jumped off the bridge?”

Marissa really likes clothing and fashion, because a reference to it makes her stop for a moment. Without a word she takes the only dress I haven’t seen her wear yet, and throws it down on the bed in front of me, perhaps a little harder than necessary.

“Wow, ok. Let me get this straight, you wear a pretty dress, a white one to accentuate a projection of innocence. You walk out to the middle of the span of the most popular suicide location in the world. Yes, it is, because I researched and considered that location myself. Anyway, once there, you dramatically kick off your shoes, climb barefoot up on top of the railing, and then jump over the side. All that just screams to anybody nearby, ‘Look at me, I’m about to kill myself!’ Oh, and how was your hair styled? Was it hanging loose? Yes? Wow, and your beautiful long hair was flowing around in the breeze while you were doing all this. That’s quite the image. And you did it all on a good weather day during rush hour, which means probably half the city saw you. I must say, that was an extremely impressive cry for help. If somebody had uploaded a video, you could have been That Girl instead of me. You do a tragic Academy Award winning performance, but now you don’t even want to show up to accept your Oscar.”

Marissa has yet to say a single word. I see her eyes tear up, and before I can determine whether she’s sad, angry, both at once, or some other combination of emotion, she rushes out of the room.

I’m not a psychologist or psychotherapist, and therefore I can’t be certain whether my words were helpful or harmful. I can’t be anything but honest, but I do recognize that sometimes things should be said in the right manner or with the right timing. For example, I didn’t have to say anything at all, and for me to do so suggests that I have at least some interest in my roommate’s welfare.

Half an hour later, Marissa returns. Her eyes are puffy. She flops down on her bad, then glares over at me.

“We’re still friends, but I promise you Brin, someday I’ll make you cry.”

Most people would consider a statement like that a threat, and respond negatively, but I don’t take the bait. Besides, that’s the first time she’s referred to us as friends. Anyway, I give her a friendly response. “If you succeed, you’ll be the first.”

Marissa chuckles softly. “Maybe I’ll make you smile one of these days too. Here, you can have this. I don’t want it.” She tosses the white dress into my lap.

“Are you sure? You don’t mind if I wear this?” I was anticipating Marissa would go in the opposite direction, and take her clothes back and stop letting me wear them, because she’s angry at me.

She doesn’t mind, so I immediately pull off what Marissa’s been letting me wear up until now. She gasps, which demonstrates how repressed American culture is when it comes to nudity. It’s not like I’m completely naked here. Anyway, I pull on the white dress, and enter our tiny bathroom to inspect the result.

White is definitely not my color, and this is way too feminine compared to what I usually wear. Marissa’s other dress that I was wearing before was frilly enough as it is. Anyway, there’s a ring of satin around the inside hem, which is smooth against the scars on my thighs. Nevertheless, it’s nice to be able to wear something else, and this is at least much better than a hospital gown. If it means I have to look like some fair maiden from one of the fantasy stories that Marissa is always going on about, then that’s what I’ll do.

I understand that some psychiatric hospitals don’t allow patients to wear tops with straps that are too thin, because anything stringy could be used to fashion a noose, and other hospitals don’t allow patients to wear shorts. This facility doesn’t seem to have any regulations against such clothing, although they do prohibit more obvious things that could be used as a ligature, such as shoelaces, sweatcoat strings, and bra underwires. When some girls are completely incoherent, acting violent, running around naked, or any number of antics, the staff has bigger concerns than trying to define or enforce an arbitrary dress code. Besides, the air conditioning still isn’t working. From what I can determine, San Francisco appears to be in a significant heat wave at this time, and we’re all trying to keep cool any way we can.

One additional point about the air conditioning: I learned that the boys’ ward had a similar failure about the same time. However, their air conditioning was repaired within two days. It’s been three weeks and ours still isn’t functional. Supposedly there’s a necessary part on backorder, and they prioritized the boys’ ward since they’re located on the south side of the building and therefore receive more sunlight, while we’re on the north side. However, we still bake in the afternoon sunlight every day when it comes in through the west windows. I’ve never been interested in politics, but I can’t help but conjecture that sexism is potentially playing a role here.

* * *

One thing that quickly becomes apparent when you’re in a psychiatric ward is that there are numerous medications for depression, psychosis, or even just to assist in sleeping. For example, since I arrived here I’ve heard mentioned or actually seen get administered to patients Ablify, Adderall, Benadryl, Depacote, Geodon, Invega, Klonopin, Lithium Carbonate, Lithium Orotate, Nembutal, Prozac, Risperdal, Seroquel, Wellbutrin, Xanax, Zoloft, and Zyprexa.

In addition, there’s a long list of diagnoses and labels for psychiatric conditions that I’ve seen used to refer to myself, Marissa, other patients here, or people in general. For example, so far I’ve heard mentioned anhedonia, anti-social personality disorder, anxiety, attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD), bi-polar disorder type I and type II, borderline personality disorder, depression, dissociative personality disorder, narcissistic personality disorder, obsessive compulsive disorder, paranoia, post-traumatic stress disorder, psychosis, schizoaffective disorder, schizoid, schizophrenia, schizotypal, and sociopathy. I understand that some conditions such as schizophrenia can’t be officially determined until one is an adult, but I still hear about them.

About that last diagnosis in the list, I again consider whether or not I’m a sociopath. I can confirm that I don’t feel anything for anybody. However, I am different from psychopaths or those who actually commit violent acts. Or at least from those who commit violent acts on other individuals against their consent. To state it simply: Psychopaths are weak. Not because they do things that society defines as cruel, but rather because they’re dominated by their compulsions. They have an emotional need to feel powerful or even just adequate, and are driven to take action to fulfill their inner appetites and small egos. In other words, they are not in control. I am superior, because I am in control.

That is why I have never, for example, tortured animals or engaged in other classic sociopathic behavior. I’ve considered it as an experiment, but rejected acting out in such a manner, not for moral reasons, and not because I’m not capable of violence, but rather because cruelty to animals seems a pointless and immature act that wouldn’t accomplish any purpose.

I’m contemplating my own characteristics and state of being, when Marissa comes out of her weekly appointment with her psychologist. As usual, it appears to not have gone very well, since I can hear her shouting all the way from our room. “Don’t confuse emotional for weak! I’ll slit your fucking throat with tears coming down my cheeks, you fucking fuckwipe!” Yes, for anybody who hasn’t realized it yet, Marissa has no filter. Similarly, the concept of “impulse control” appears to be completely alien to her as well. Anyway, if you want to get released from a psychiatric hospital, threatening homicide toward the professionals who decide when you’re ready to be released is not the recommended course of action.

Marissa runs into our room, muttering to herself. “I’ll show you crazy, bitches!” She flops down on her bed, pulls the pillow over her head, and sobs. Marissa really does cry all the time. I wonder how she keeps from getting dehydrated. Of course, Marissa’s feelings can change rapidly too. If you don’t like the way she’s currently acting, then just wait five minutes and her mood will be completely different.

However, over the next few days I notice that Marissa is becoming rather wild and unstable, even for her, and that’s saying something. Her speech is sometimes slurred, and her usually highly imaginative statements aren’t always making sense. She’s acting more like one of the schizos down the hall, instead of a cutter with the humbly self-deprecating remarks that she usually makes about herself. For example, the food here is definitely low quality, although occasionally we receive something more palatable. Today the staff brought in dessert. However, Marissa screamed loudly, threw her cupcake down on the floor, stomped on it, then ran out of the room. What does she have against cupcakes? I know she likes sugary confections, so her negative reaction towards this treat was unexpected.

I find that I had gotten used to Marissa’s picturesque personality, and I can’t deny that I prefer the way she used to be.

* * *

The next morning I awake to notice Marissa staring into space and softly growling like a wild animal. That’s something I haven’t seen from her before. I make an attempt to talk, but her disposition is angry and hostile. I can’t make out all of her words, but she seems to be blaming me for everything unpleasant that’s ever happened in her life. What should I do, if anything? Marissa did comment in one of her more coherent moments yesterday that she had been placed on a new medication. I consider mentioning her status to one of the staff, assuming they aren’t already aware of it. At any rate, my roommate appears to be out of commission, and it’s time for breakfast, so there’s nothing for me here in this room.

I step out into the hallway. I’m not a sensitive person, and it isn’t logical for things like intuition or psychic impressions to exist. Nevertheless, I do have a tingling sense that something is wrong.

I suddenly realize that Marissa is standing right behind me. I start to turn around, and before I can do anything she sucker punches me right in the face. I’m off balance and before I can think of how to respond, she grabs me and lunges forward. I fall to the ground hard, with Marissa on top of me. The hallway is a tile floor, and my body makes a surprisingly loud sound when it makes impact. I also hit my head on the ground, although I’m certain it’s not hard enough to produce a concussion. Marissa then proceeds to punch me in the face repeatedly.

One significant aspect of being suicidal is the frequent ideation of, or at least non-resistance to, the prospect of receiving death from an accident, murder, or other harmful situation. Therefore, in spite of the painful physical sensations, I do nothing and let her continue hitting me. With enough hits she can cause a cerebral hemorrhage and I can die that way.

Marissa swings back her arm for another punch, but doesn’t hit me again. She suddenly looks angry, and the reason why quickly becomes apparent. Donna has approached from behind and taken hold of her wrist. Marissa screeches, jumps up, and turns on her. I get a front row seat to seeing Donna’s physical talents in action as she deftly deflects Marissa’s punches and kicks. Marissa then tries to bite her, but Donna smoothly glides out of the way while simultaneously pinning her against the wall. Donna then picks her up off the ground, and without a word bodily carries her off in the direction of the padded time out room. I’m mildly impressed with how Donna is able to do all this without breaking a sweat, and without either of them getting injured in any fashion.

I stand up. Marissa’s shrieks and howls are gradually decreasing in volume as her distance from me increases. I touch my face in the location where she was punching me and feel wetness, which is confirmed to be blood when I pull my hand back and inspect it. This is a concern. Not because of any injury to myself, which I couldn’t care less about, but because of the ramifications of it.

I need to find Donna, and quickly.

* * *

Finding Donna is an easy matter, because a few minutes later she’s heading back down the hallway towards me. I speak first. “Donna, we need to talk.”

Donna studies me for a second. “You need to have your face looked at. Come with me, and we can do both.”

I obediently follow her to a door, which she unlocks to reveal what looks like a small doctor’s office. Donna gestures to a chair, which I take a seat in. I sit still while she wipes my face with some antiseptic liquid.

“Why didn’t you fight back?” Donna casually asks this while preparing an ice pack.

Donna is already very familiar with my suicidal ideation and self-harming behavior, and as a result should already know the answer. Therefore, I say something else. “I’m used to getting abuse from people close to me.” However, that was perhaps the wrong way to answer, since it opens the door to asking about my past, which I have yet to tell anybody about, and which I have no inclination to share, in spite of various psychologists’ attempts to get me to “open up”. Donna, to her credit, raises an eyebrow but doesn’t push the matter further.

I notice a pair of sharp scissors on a table. I could jab them into my jugular vein and bleed out quickly. Donna has her back to me while using the small sink in the room, but seems to sense what’s going on. “Don’t even think about it, Brin. I’d stop you before you even got your hand on them.”

“Too late, I was already thinking about it before you spoke. But I’ll be honest, it is a tempting proposition. It might be interesting to conduct an experiment to see if you’re actually that fast. But no, I’m not going to do anything like that. At least not this time, not while somebody is trying to help me.”

“Brin, we are all trying to help you here. Once of these days I hope you’ll see that.”

“So you all say. If you really wanted to help me then you’d hand me those scissors and leave the room for two minutes.”

Donna sighs and inspects my face, and seems to be satisfied with the result. It’s time to address the reason why I wanted to talk with her. There’s no subtle way to present the proposal, so I just proceed to say it: “Donna, I don’t want Marissa to be sent to the high security ward.”

“Rules are rules. Any serious assault upon staff or another patient is grounds for immediate transfer. You know that, Brin. I saw you reading the hospital manual the other week.”

I’m mildly impressed with Donna again, this time with how observant she can be. I contemplate my options. “Can I not press charges, so to speak? This can be treated as a minor incident, and doesn’t have to be classified as an assault.”

Donna stops and considers. “We both know you’re honest, so let me ask you a simple question. Do you care about her? Marissa, I mean.”

I state the arguments in support of my case. “Marissa wouldn’t do well in the high security ward. A place like that would destroy her, perhaps permanently. Also, I’ve become more social since meeting her. We’re a good influence on each other, so in order to better facilitate our treatment it makes sense that we should remain roommates here.”

“I agree with you, Brin, at least mostly. Although you two are quite the handful, so I don’t know if I’d use the words ‘good influence’ on each other. But I’ll see what I can do. However, that wasn’t my question. What I’m really asking is: Do you care about Marissa?”

Donna isn’t a trained psychotherapist or counselor or anything like that, but perhaps she should be, since she’s good at formulating pointed questions. The issue isn’t whether I would personally gain something from Marissa remaining my roommate, but rather do I have any actual feelings about her. My first impression is to say no, since I honestly don’t have emotions, or at least I only experience them in the most extreme situations. Still, I can’t deny that Marissa is unique when compared to anybody I’ve ever interacted with before. My second impression is to say yes, since it would support my case if being with her was making me start to feel things. However, I’m not going to lie. Unlike most intellectual people, I don’t have pride entangled with my mental abilities, so I have no resistance to being wrong or not knowing something. Therefore the best answer I am able to give is a simple one:

“I don’t know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The right medication can be a life saver, and make one be able to more or less function in life. The wrong medication can have nasty side effects, increase suicidal feelings, or make one downright psychotic. Unfortunately, there’s no way for doctors to accurately predict which will happen, other than trying different combinations and doses and waiting until something is found that seems to work. There’s a reason why people often hate their meds and don’t want to take them.


	8. Marissa - Ok, I’m crazy

* * *

You know what makes a nightmare scary? It’s because you think it’s real! You’re trapped in the illusion, and can’t remember your “real” life. Being crazy or having an episode or psychotic break or whatever they call it is kind of like that. Weird shit’s going on, and you think it’s actually happening to you. Which I suppose it is.

But wait, there’s more! And this is worse! I’m not fully in some psycho world, and can sort of feel my so-called real life too. Things are fuzzy, like I’m half asleep or just waking up. I kinda remember what led me here. I was mad at Brin about something, but what could it have been? How long have I been here? An hour? A week?

I float around half conscious for who knows how long until I do sorta remember something. I remember that I was dragged into a padded room and injected with some shit. Which is where I am now, in this padded time out room. Right now I’m alone, and strapped down to a bed. Really strapped down so I can’t move, like how I was in the ambulance.

Also, there’s a giant sparkly purple ball of energy hovering in the middle of the room above me. It looks like a unicorn threw up in here, if barf could fly. When I look at it, sparks fly and lightning bolts jump out of it and zap me in the side of the head. That hurts! It feels like my brain is on fucking fire. Or rather that my brain is freezing, like if Elsa from “Frozen” turned me into an ice statue. Or both at once. Seriously, I have no fucking clue anymore.

I do know that I am tied up, which I hate. Who knows what bad things can happen to me when I’m helpless like this? Since my hair is really long, I bet they’ll think I can make a braid and hang myself with it. I know they don’t want me to hurt myself, which makes me really afraid they’re going to cut all my hair off! But I’m alone, at least for now. Well, other than the giant purple ball hovering in the room above me, which seems kinda alive. I feel like it’s looking at me, judging me.

Fuck off big purple ball! Stop staring at me and go away! Please? I’m judging myself enough as it is. In a rare moment of togetherness, I have a thought about fear. You see, fear is always about something you don’t want to happen in the future. But once it happens, you’re no longer afraid, or at least not about that thing. Walking through the city at night, I’m afraid I’ll meet somebody. Then I meet somebody, and I’m afraid they’ll come over to me. Then they come to me and I’m afraid they’ll ask for money. Then they ask for money and I’m afraid they won’t take no for an answer. Then they won’t take no for an answer and I’m afraid they’ll grab me. Then they grab me and I’m afraid they’ll hurt me. Then they hurt me and I’m afraid they’ll kill me. Then they kill me and I’m afraid I’ll go to hell. Then I go to hell and I’m afraid of being tortured by devils. Then I’m getting tortured and I’m no longer afraid, just in pain. Right now I’m in hell, and in pain.

There’s no way around it. I’m seeing things! There’s that purple ball energy thing hovering above me. I’m sane enough to know that means I’m fucking crazy. Yes, truly crazy. I said over and over that I’m not crazy. But I am crazy now, and I hate that. Being crazy hurts. A lot! No matter how much I struggle in my bonds I can’t get free. Nobody comes to help me. Nobody cares.

I hurt so much myself, that I don’t want anybody else to be hurt too. I know I hurt Brin, and punched her in the face, and I hate hurting people. Whenever somebody’s nice to me I always have to fuck it up by hurting them. I hate myself so much! I’m thinking about Brin healing from injury, when the purple ball of energy hovering above me flashes bright enough I have to close my eyes. When I open them, I’m no longer in the padded room.

I’m now standing in a hospital operating place. Brin is lying on the table, so still she looks dead. Brin is already super pale, but here she looks even paler, if that were even possible! Brin’s naked, or close to it with one of those blue operating blanket things draped over her breasts and another one covering her hips. An older white guy with salt and pepper hair, who looks like what you’d think a friendly cruise ship captain would look like, is carefully sewing up one of Brin’s arms.

A younger woman speaks with a southern drawl. “We’re almost out of ‘A positive’ blood. Can’t we just let these suicidal ones die, and give blood and attention to those who actually want to live?”

The doctor speaks in a nice rich voice, but doesn’t look up or stop stitching up Brin’s arm. “You know we treat all those that we help equally, regardless of background or circumstance, and it’s not our job to judge people. Respecting the privacy of our patients goes back to the original Hippocratic Oath.”

Another young woman enters the room, pulling on a hospital mask. “Hey guys, my boyfriend just texted me this horrible suicide video and… oh Jesus, this is That Girl!”

I may be crazy, but I know what I’m seeing. This has to be Brin in the hospital right after she tried to kill herself. Wow, I’m really psychic, and am looking into the past! Cool, I have a superpower now! Being crazy isn’t all bad. I don’t suffer from insanity, I enjoy every minute of it! Ha ha ha! Anyhoo, I’m thinking about Brin, and why she tried to kill herself. Energy crackles and everything gets so bright I have to close my eyes again. When I open them, the scene has changed.

I’m now in a nicely decorated room that looks like it should be in some mansion. I see a cute little girl who’s can’t be more than, like, four years old, with red hair and bright green eyes. She’s holding two books. She’s cute even though she’s crying. “Mom, you promised! You said you would!”

There’s a woman who also has red hair and green eyes. She’d be kinda pretty if it weren’t for the ugly look on her face. She slaps the girl so hard she falls over and drops her books. “Shut up!”

A handsome man wearing a white suit walks in holding two bubbling champagne glasses. The woman looks at him. “It just won’t shut up! I wish it had never been born. If abortion was more accepted, I never would have had this burden.”

The little girl is crying on the floor. “Why do you hate me so much?”

“For the last time, be quiet!” The woman screams, and hits the girl really hard. The girl tries to get away, but the woman is holding her. She keeps hitting the girl over and over again and again, until finally it seems like the light goes out of the girl’s eyes. She’s no longer struggling, and it’s like she’s no longer even there.

The man speaks up. “I’ve had enough of this. If you’re going to focus on it instead of me, then let’s have some real fun.” He leaves and returns carrying a bullwhip like Indiana Jones has. What the fuck? Seriously, what sort of pervs keep whips in their house?

The woman takes the girl’s shirt off and holds her down. The girl doesn’t do anything. She’s just staring off to the side like a plastic doll.

Ok, my magic power to look into the past or whatever is no longer a good thing. I don’t want to see what’s going to happen here. I try to stop the scene, like mentally pressing the stop button on a DVD player, but nothing happens. Crack! The whip hits the girl, leaving a bright red line on her bare back. I try to close my eyes, but they’re already closed, and I can still see everything. Crack! The second line on her back is starting to bleed. Come on, change the scene, change the scene, nothing can be worse than this, right? Crack!

Finally there’s the bright flash of light and I’m back in the padded room. The purple ball is still there, silently sparkling above me like before.

I’m relieved, but not for long. What am I going to see next? There’s one thing I really, really do not want. This sucks so bad, because you can’t not think about something when you’re trying to not think about it. Sure enough, I create my own reality again.

There’s no flash, and the scene doesn’t change. However, with a click the door to the room opens. He steps in the room with me. My father steps into the room, and smiles at me. “Hey, cupcake!”

I scream.

* * *

My father closes the door behind him. “Hey there, quiet down cupcake. Is that any way to greet your old man?”

“No! Go away!”

He just stands there, looking at me. “It’s been three years. I’ve missed you since your mother and I broke up. I’ve missed you a lot, you know.”

“I know what you want! The answer’s no! You said you’d never ever do it again!” I scream again, even louder. “Help!”

“Shh, nobody can hear you. You’ll ruin your pretty voice. You’re so beautiful, cupcake. Your tits have grown in nicely in recent years, by the way.”

My dad walks over to me. Is he really here? Everything is so real. I can smell the beer on his breath, see the desire in his eyes, and feel it when he walks over and touches the side of my face, and then starts rubbing my chest. I try to resist, but can’t help myself. My body betrays me and my nipples get hard. I really am worthless subhuman trash. I start crying. “No, leave me alone!”

“There, that’s a good girl. You know you want it. I know you’ve been a dirty slut and fucking lots of boys at school. Daddy deserves some too, and you need to be cleansed of your sins. It’s the least you can do, since without me and my seed you wouldn’t even exist.”

“No, no, I don’t want it!” I’m sobbing and can barely get the words out.

“If you don’t want to play our special game one more time, then why are you all tied up like this? Sure, it was always more fun when I would get to do the tying up. But yeah, you’re ready for me like a present on Christmas Day. Ooh, stop struggling like that, cupcake, you’ll rip your skin.”

He takes off his belt, undoes his pants, and pulls out his already rock hard cock. “I’m just showing you how much I love you. Relax cupcake, just hold still. You should know by now it hurts less that way.” He lifts my gown up, exposing my bare legs and tummy, and then grabs hold of the waistband of my panties.

I give up! I close my eyes tight and keep them closed, just like I always did when growing up.

Two things happen at once. I hear a really big scream, and at the same time feel something heavy and wet land on me. My eyes snap open. There’s a severed hand on my bare belly! My dad is screaming so loud my ears hurt, while staring at his arm which is spurting blood all over the place.

Brin entered the room when I wasn’t looking. She’s wielding a katana and wearing a skimpy black latex dominatrix outfit. She casually wipes her bloody katana off on my dad’s back.

“So, you are Mr. Rodriguez. I can’t say that it’s a pleasure to finally meet you. It would appear that you never learned that ‘no’ means no.” My dad doesn’t respond, and is still hunched over howling in pain and looking at the stump of his right arm. Brin continues, speaking calmly. “Actually it’s more than that. People need to realize that only ‘yes’ means yes, and that unless the other person actually consents and clearly says ‘yes’, then proceeding with any form of sexual contact is rape.”

Brin pauses for a moment. “Speaking of rape… Marissa, I never realized your situation. Wow, seriously, your own father? I think we can all agree that rape is wrong, incest is wrong, and child molestation or mixing the two is wrong to a most extreme degree. I believe that now is an appropriate time to swear, because non-existent god damn, that is seriously fucked up!”

This is so unexpected, I’m like in shock or something. “Help me, Brin!” I struggle against my bonds.

“Oh, right.” Brin seems to notice for the first time that I’m tied to the bed. With one slash of her samurai sword, Brin slices through the medical strap thingies holding me down. Still sobbing, I roll off the bed and do a clumsy fall down to the floor. Brin looks at me and starts to say something, but then my dad stands up and tries to run out the door. Brin kicks him in the balls hard. “You are not going anywhere.”

My dad yells and lunges at Brin. She tries to raise her sword but he’s too close, and he grabs her with his good arm and rams her backwards into the padded wall. Brin doesn’t look scared, but instead raises her sword and hits my dad on the head with the base of it. He falls to the ground unconscious.

With surprising strength, Brin lifts my dad’s body and places it on the bed I was just on. That’s surprising since he’s probably heavier than both Brin and me put together. She then starts strapping him down to it. The straps that Brin cut through to release me seem to have magically repaired themselves. While working, Brin talks with me.

“You know Marissa, people are always telling you to calm down and suppress your emotions. Your parents, your schoolteachers, the psychotherapists here, and most everybody else is that way. Perhaps now it’s time to express how you really feel?” Brin reaches into a small handbag she has, pulls out and holds up a small but wicked looking knife, then looks at my father knowingly. I know what she has in mind.

“Uh… thanks, but no thanks! I can’t. He would always touch me, so I don’t want to touch him. Not now, not ever.”

“I have gloves.” Brin reaches inside her bag again, and pulls out a pair of what looks like industrial strength rubber gloves.

“No, but… maybe you can do what I can’t.” My fear and anxiety are fast turning into a gleeful rage.

Speaking of glee, Brin doesn’t smile, but still seems like a five year old who’s just been given a whole chocolate cake all to herself. “Oh Marissa, you really are a most excellent friend, you know that? Here, you should get more comfortable.” I’m still huddled on the floor. Brin goes to her handbag once more. It’s quite small, but she somehow manages to pull out an entire folding chair from it. Wow, Brin’s purse is like that bag from Mary Poppins, since it seems like it’s bigger on the inside and there’s no limit to what it can store. She sets the chair up in the corner so I can sit and watch.

Brin places a ball gag (again from her bag) in my dad’s mouth, then slaps him until he wakes up. After giving him a minute to see his situation and make muffled noises around his gag, Brin starts calmly explaining like a teacher in a classroom: “There are three types of torture. Number one is physical pain, which most people think about when they hear the term. Number two is psychological pain, such as torturing someone’s loved ones in front of them. Number three is pain through disgust, such as making someone eat their own feces. Let’s begin with number two.”

Brin pulls out a full sized kitchen blender from her magic bag. She then rips at the padding covering the wall to expose an electrical outlet, and plugs in the blender. How did she know an outlet would be there? Brin then picks up my dad’s severed hand from the floor, looks it over for a second like something from science class, then addresses him.

“With today’s medical technology, severed limbs can be easily reattached, especially when the cut is clean, as it is here. Unfortunately for you, reattachment is never going to happen with your hand. You get to look forward to using a prosthetic for the rest of your life.” She drops his hand in the blender, covers it with the lid, then turns the blender on. The insides of it are quickly covered in red.

Brin then approaches my dad with her knife, and starts cutting his clothes off, until he’s completely naked. “You did this exact same thing to your daughter once, after tying her up. How does it feel to have it done to you?” She then removes his gag.

I don’t like to feel I’ve taken after my dad in any way, but one thing we both do is swear a lot. After he says a whole bunch of naughty words, Brin puts on the rubber gloves, grabs his now very soft dick, and holds the knife against it. That gets his attention!

“Aaah, no please don’t cut it off please you can do anything else just don’t cut it off!”

Brin lets go of his cock. “Very well. I promise I won’t cut it off, although you certainly don’t deserve to have one due to your misuse of it. You will now apologize to your daughter for everything you’ve done and for being an extremely poor quality parent. If your apology is sincere, then you will be released.”

My dad then gives one of the worst performances, like ever. Seriously, I wish I could have got it on video! It’s a mixture of saying he’s sorry but in a tone of voice that says he isn’t, saying things he thinks Brin wants to hear just so he’ll be let go, saying I wanted it, saying I seduced him, and some good gaslighting thrown in too. “Gaslighting” is a term they taught us in one of the groups here. I’ve learned something today, that I was never able to really see or willing to admit before now: My dad is a really, really bad person.

Brin sees all this too of course, and looks impressed for a moment. “Wow, that was seriously bad all around. However, that will make what I’m about to do next much easier. How shall I word this? I know: You need to be cleansed of your sins. That’s what you just said to your daughter, isn’t it?” Brin wasn’t in the room yet when my dad said that to me, so I don’t know how she knows he said that, but hey that’s probably the least weird thing going on in here.

My dad starts complaining and cussing, and angrily says that because he said sorry, that Brin has to let him go. “You crazy dumb bitch!”

Ooh, bad idea for him to say that! I look forward to seeing what Brin does next. She seems completely unaffected by his jab at her.

“Hmm, two out of three isn’t bad. I’m in a mental hospital, so ‘crazy’, although a vernacular term, isn’t an inaccurate assessment to make. Also, ‘bitch’ is a characteristic that I’m not going to try to deny either. However ‘dumb’ I must say is completely inaccurate. That word is more applicable to yourself, since it’s a poor choice for the very last word you’ll ever speak.” Brin raises her knife.

My dad gets a look of shock and horror on his face. Is Brin going to kill him? No, instead she shoves a metal wedge into his mouth to hold it open, and cuts out his tongue.

Holding my dad’s severed tongue in her gloved hands, Brin rubs it back and forth across his dick. “What, isn’t this stimulating for you? You liked tongue on your penis well enough when you used to make your daughter suck it.” Brin speaks with an icy calm, like she’s talking about the weather.

Brin then starts actively torturing my dad in various creative ways. Brin has always been scary, but I never knew what she was truly capable of before now. She makes sure to explain exactly what she’s going to do before she does it, holding up each tool she uses. She explains it to me. “Torture can be doubly effective when they know what’s going to happen before it actually does, so they have time to anticipate and fear it. Although, in contrast, as with the spontaneous tongue removal, doing the unexpected from time to time is also an impactful technique, because it engenders a continual fear of the unknown.”

What’s follows is the worst torture I’ve ever seen or imagined. (Not that I’ve ever seen anybody get tortured before.) For example, with my dad’s other hand, Brin doesn’t just cut it off as well. She goes slowly bit by bit, taking her time. She starts by sticking needles under his fingernails, before bending his fingernails back so she can poke at the sensitive parts some more, before pulling them out altogether. Only then does she cut off a finger, before quickly putting a red hot iron against it so it doesn’t bleed too much. And yes, she cuts them off one knuckle’s worth at a time.

“Not bad, that scream measured 120 decibels. There’s a high probability that with a bit more finesse I can get to at least 125.” Yes, Brin brought out a sound device thing from her bag so she could see how loud my dad’s screams are.

True to her word, Brin doesn’t cut off my dad’s dick. However, he probably wishes she did cut it off. I half throw up in my mouth when I see what she does do to it. “Stop crying like that. I said I wouldn’t cut it off, and I didn’t. And you did give me permission to do anything else as long as I didn’t remove it, so there’s nobody to blame here but yourself. For example, you didn’t say I couldn’t do anything to your testicles. Now open wide, because we’ve been going for two hours so far, and it’s time for lunch. Brin carries his severed balls up to his mouth, and, well, it’s easy to guess what happens next.

Brin is getting blood everywhere, until she decides even her dominatrix outfit is in the way. She strips it off, tosses it in the corner by the door, and stands in the room completely naked. Usually I’d consider seeing somebody like Brin in the nude to be sexy, but she’s covered with blood and more, and is looking really scary. Or rather, even more so than normal, and that’s saying something! Seriously, by now it’s like she’s wearing a dark red bodysuit. “Ah, that is an improvement. Earthly Brin wanted to be naked for her suicide attempt, so I can be naked even if she can’t. Now, where was I…”

“I thought for sure you were going to rip his eyeballs out.” I can’t resist blurting out what I was thinking.

“Oh no, I don’t want to do that, at least not yet. You see, it’s important for him to watch what’s being done to him, and realize how disabled he is going to be for the rest of his life. Of course, there’s no reason why I can’t remove one eye at this time.”

Brin hops up on the bed, and crouches down above my dad. Her privates are inches above his face. Brin sees this too. “Do you like this? Do you find it arousing? Or am I too old for you already, and it’s only pre-teen girls that you really desire, like raping your own daughter over a period of nearly five years from when she was eight through when she was twelve?” Brin carefully reaches down with her thumb and forefinger, and oh I can’t watch this! I close my eyes! My dad is screaming louder than ever before, but I still hear Brin talking. “Wow, similar to slashing your own wrists, this is actually harder than I thought it would be. An eyeball is extremely slippery and it’s difficult to get a good grip upon it.” I can’t resist peeking, and immediately wish I hadn’t. Brin is trying to yank his eye out, and it’s come out part way, but is stuck. Brin, still naked, tries to stand up and use her leg muscles for help, while still holding onto the eyeball. With the grossest sound I’ve ever heard in my life, my dad’s eye splortches out of its socket. Brin was pulling so hard that she loses her balance and falls off the foot of the bed, and hits her head on the back wall. It’s padded, so no harm done. She quickly gets up from the floor, holding his eyeball up like a seeker holding the Golden Snitch in the game of Quidditch from “Harry Potter”. There’s some goo hanging off the back of it.

As Brin continues, my dad goes unconscious from the pain a few times. She just covers his face with a towel, then pours cold water over him until he splutters and coughs and comes to like he’s drowning. Brin calls this “waterboarding”. Yes, she pulled several large water jugs out of her magic bag of holding too.

I must be starting to get used to all this, because it doesn’t bother or gross me out nearly as much as it did when she started. Brin has just finished a long dental torture session. It’s as bad as it sounds. Brin brought out various dentist stuff from her purse, and drilled holes in all my dad’s teeth until she reached the nerves in the roots, and made sure to do each hole slowly for max effect. Brin is acting like a scientist trying different things out. “Did you know that when the roots are exposed like this, you can cause extreme pain by simply blowing across them?”

After setting up a fan to cause continual airflow over his mouth for a while, Brin turns it off and puts it away. “Ok, time to proceed to the next phase. Everything up until now has just been a warm-up. It is now time to start some real torture.” I wonder what could be worse than everything that’s happened so far, and don’t have to wait for long. Brin brings out pliers, a small circular saw, and a bunch of weird electronic equipment and computers. With the pliers she rips out clumps of my dad’s hair until little is left, which is pretty tame compared to what’s she’s been doing. With her knife she cuts a circle around my dad’s head, then peels off his scalp like an Indian. Or Native American, or First Nations Person, or whatever the right term is these days. Ok, that’s really gross, especially when she tosses it away and leaves my dad’s bloody skull exposed.

Finally, with the small saw Brin carefully cuts a circle through the bone all around the top of my dad’s head. She grabs hold of the sides and starts lifting up the top of his skull. Underneath it I can start to see brains. Brin explains her plan. “Everything up until now has just been pain delivered through the nerves in one’s extremities. However, if I attach these electrodes directly to the brain in the correct places, then I can produce excruciating pain far beyond anything possible otherwise.” Ok, this is finally too much for me! Brin fiddles with things a moment. “I’m having difficulty with removing the top of his skull. It seems brains are attached to the inside of it, so if I lift wrongly I’ll take half of his brain with it and kill him prematurely. Marissa, can you give me a hand here?”

“Brin, no! Stop, that’s enough!”

Brin, to her credit, immediately does so. “Ok, I’ll stop. You are in control here, Marissa. By the way, you are in control of your Earthly life too.”

For a while we look at each other in silence. My dad has gone unconscious again. My heart is racing. Brin seems completely calm, almost bored even. I wonder what the staff will do when they see the mess we’ve made in here. Oh wait, this whole thing is a vision. But everything seems so real! I have to ask Brin to be sure. “So, is all this just in my head?”

“Yes, of course, this entire experience is your personal hallucination, brought about by a combination of your mental condition, a mixture of medications, and what your own Higher Self deems you ready for. However, that doesn’t mean it’s not real. For example, there are various energetic connections between people, and I would like to point out that Mr. Rodriguez is having some _very_ interesting dreams in the so-called real world at this time. Also, I’m not just something you’re making up. I’m Brin’s Higher Self, and I’ve taken this opportunity to telepathically visit you.”

“Wait, you’re Brin’s Higher Self? But isn’t somebody’s soul thingy supposed to be all love and light and stuff like that?”

“We can be. Sometimes somebody just needs a warm hug delivered with understanding and affection in order to make their next step. Other times somebody needs a kick in the buttocks so to speak, and needs to see their rapist get tortured to such a degree that they feel sorry for them. It’s one way you can regain control.”

“Wow, um… So, uh... I don’t know if I’m supposed to thank you for what you’ve done but…”

“No, the only appreciation needed is for you to appreciate yourself. About me, I’m not supposed to even be here, and there’s a high probability I’m going to get in trouble for intentionally breaking the rules and spiritually visiting you in this fashion. However, I would like to ask one favor of you, if possible. You’ve had your epiphany, and your revenge. Earthly Brin hasn’t had that yet. I am asking you to help me, or rather to help her.”

Oh wow, this is like being given a quest! That’s cool. And if it means I can help Brin or make up for hurting her, I’m all for it. “Sure thing, spiritual Brin! What do I have to do?”

“It’s not about something you have to do, but rather something you have to not do. There’s no easy way to describe this in words, but mostly you just have to be yourself, your true self. You will know when the time comes. However, that won’t make it any easier.”

Huh? I don’t understand a word she just said. Why do the quest givers in stories always have to be like Yoda from “Star Wars” and speak in riddles and not just say things clearly to the heroine for once?

“Here’s one more thing that might help you both.” Brin turns her purse upside down and shakes it, and one more item comes out. It’s a silver crucifix necklace. She gives it to me, and says it may be useful, at least eventually. Ooh, a magic item! I put it on. Unlike Brin, I was actually raised Christian.

“Oh, I neglected to tell you the most important thing. Remember that love –”

Poof! Brin disappears in midsentence. It happens so fast I have to look around for a second. But she’s really gone. I look over at my dad and he’s gone too. Everything is quiet now. Everything else is still here, like the blender and Brin’s “tools”. I walk around the room, my bare feet stepping in the sticky half-dried blood on the floor. The door is still locked. I’m tired, but I really don’t want to lie down on the bed where I was tied up and my dad tortured. I sit back down in the folding chair and quickly fall asleep.

* * *

I wake up, not knowing where I am. After a while I realize I’m in the time out room, and strapped down to the bed, which I have been all along. I’m totally soaked in sweat, and not just because the fucking air conditioning still isn’t working. Seriously, I’m wetter and stickier than I am after a round of really good sex. Ha ha! Wow, so all this really was in my head? I of course don’t have the silver cross that spiritual Brin gave me, since that only existed in my vision quest. The whole thing was like a bad dream. And like a dream or bad drug trip, many of the details are quickly leaving my mind. However, sometimes real life is worse than any nightmare. I attacked Brin, and I’m sure she’ll never forgive me, or may take it out on me. This time I don’t think she’s going to do nothing, like after I did the prank with the Coke can. I am such a horrible waste of space.

Soon someone comes and lets me out of the time out room. She tells me that I’m not being sent to the high security ward for some reason, but that if I do anything like this again I definitely will be. Some psych people talk with me for a while but I’m not really listening. I’m afraid of what’s going to happen afterward. I’m back in the waking world now. There’s no way I can stand to face Brin. I seriously wish I didn’t exist.

I’m not going back to our room, because Brin is probably there. I look around for a place to hide. I move quickly around the ward. No, Brin isn’t in the day room, but she’s probably looking for me by now. I notice the linen closet is open. It’s always been locked before. Looking around to make sure nobody sees me, I step inside, quiet as a mouse, and softly close the door behind me.

It’s very dark in here, except for a line of light under the door. Next to me are a bunch of shelves covered in folded white towels. I’m only in here for a minute before the door opens. Brin steps in, and closes the door behind her.

“There you are. You can’t get away from me. I am going to make this quick.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately, nearly 20% of girls (and 8% of boys) have been sexually abused, and about 30% of the perpetrators are close relatives. :-( Similarly, about 25% of children have been physically abused. Not all those with mental illness have been abused, and not all those abused become mentally ill, but (like throwing gasoline on a fire) abuse certainly exacerbates the situation.


	9. Brin - Maybe I do care about something

* * *

Human perception is an intricate subject. People formulate ideas, become attached to them, and then attempt to find excuses to preserve those ideas even when external circumstances change. This line of thinking can explain people supporting governments that become dictatorial, or people staying in personal relationships that become abusive. As That Girl whose suicide attempt video went viral, I am, like it or not, somewhat famous. As a result, people tend to see me in a grandiose light and attribute other positive qualities to me, such as fighting skills. For example, I just got beat up by a girl two years younger and two inches shorter than me. I have a visible black eye, but most of the other girls here just think that it means I’m even more dangerous than before, since I am supposedly willing to fight people. Not that I can’t be violent, but at least in that circumstance I didn’t do anything. Even those who actually saw our conflict unfold in the hallway seem to believe that I’m such a caricature along the lines of Chuck Norris that I can just let people punch me without worry or concern.

In actuality, the real me is (at least somewhat) different from most people’s impressions. I am aware of the intimidating effect that I seem to have on people, and in most cases I don’t care to change people’s perceptions, and beyond that I see no reason why I can’t use what Marissa would call a “superpower” to manipulate people when it suits my purposes. However, there are cases in which I don’t want people to act as if I’m about to rip their eyeballs out. Speaking of Marissa, she has been in seclusion for the past day, which means I’ve been alone for the first time in several weeks. I can admit to myself that I prefer things with her around. I am not self-absorbed to such a degree that I’m unaware that when she’s released (and presumably in a more together mental state of mind) that she will probably feel remorse for her actions toward me. From what I have determined she should be released very soon now. Therefore, my own course of action is to locate her and let her know that I am not upset with her in any fashion.

As soon as I detect that the time out room is open, and that Marissa is no longer enclosed within it, I set out to find her. She’s not in our room, and not in the day room, so she, as I expected might happen, appears to be hiding from me. She’s not in any of the other girls’ rooms, so she probably found a more obscure hiding place. This is a puzzle, and it shouldn’t be a very difficult one to figure out since the ward isn’t large. Where would I go if I wanted to conceal myself? I see by the alternate angle of the keyhole that the door to the linen room is not locked. There’s a high probably that’s her hidey-hole, so I promptly enter. Indeed, there is my roommate standing before me.

It immediately becomes apparent to me that I’m not a very socially adept person, because contrary to my intentions, Marissa appears to practically faint upon seeing me. I suppose saying that she “can’t get away from me” was a poor choice of words on my part. I merely meant that I wanted to communicate quickly that I am not mad at her. I’m also not very skilled when it comes to consoling another person, and it takes a few awkward minutes to convince my roommate that, no, I am not going to subject her to some horrible torture, or anything negative at all for that matter. “I know you weren’t in your right mind when you were hitting me, so I have no reason to hold anything against you.”

At this point I must reconfirm that Marissa really can be considered attractive in most any manner that one can choose to measure it. For example, she just had a psychotic episode, and has spent the last 24 hours in seclusion, without bathing or any other form of self-care, but still looks impressively put together. Sure, her hair is frizzy now and going in every direction, but it looks no worse than if she had been walking along a windy beach for a period of time with her lush long hair flowing loose. I would expect at least a pungent level of body odor by now. I experiment with a few subtle sniffs, but they don’t produce any negative reaction.

The door opens, and Donna stands looming in the doorway. “Are you two ok? You both know you’re not allowed to be in here.” That does produce a reaction in me, because Marissa had quickly switched to being very happy instead, and spontaneously gave me a hug. I awkwardly attempted to hug her back and, of course, right then was exactly when Donna opened the door. We quickly step back, but that just makes our behavior appear more incriminating.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything?” Donna lets us know that she’s glad we made up, but that public displays of affection (and private ones for that matter) aren’t allowed, and can potentially get us separated if we’re not careful. Marissa voices an objection. “Hey, sometimes somebody just needs a warm hug delivered with understanding and affection to make their next step!”

Donna, however, has redirected her attention behind us. “Karla, you shouldn’t be in here either.” Marissa jumps in surprise as a pile of towels in the corner of the closet suddenly erupts forth. Karla is at least 200 pounds, and talks like she has Down’s syndrome or some other developmental disability. Karla reluctantly gets up from her arrangement of towels that was covering her, like a chick being forced to leaving its nest. Apparently she had concealed herself in this room already before Marissa and I arrived.

Donna is still scanning the dimly lit room. “Who else is in here? Tsukiko, I see you. You too, sweetie, time to come out.” In contradistinction with Karla, Tsukiko is a very short and skinny presumably Japanese girl who I would expect to be on the children’s ward since she looks several years too young to be here. She smiles a lot, but never talks and is always looking down at the floor. I see her shyly emerge and climb down from one of the top shelves.

Unless one has personal experience with depression or other conditions of mental distress, they probably won’t understand why so many patients want to hide within closets in this fashion. The answer is self-explanatory: Patients often emotionally dislike their situation, and as a result want to escape from it. This condition is exacerbated in a hospital when patients usually have zero privacy and are often being poked and prodded uncomfortably by other people both physically and psychologically. Concealing oneself within a hidden and dark location is a quality way to escape and rest. On the subject of escape, I think it’s time that we do that ourselves, but in a different manner. I catch Marissa’s eye. “Let’s get out of here.”

* * *

“Sorry Brin! I know that I have a problem.” After a shower, change of clothes, and some breakfast, Marissa is more or less back to her usual self.

After being confronted with evidence to the contrary for the past day, my roommate appears to have finally discarded her belief that she’s the only person here not mentally ill. I don’t rub it in or anything. “Marissa, you’re no crazier than I am.”

My roommate is animatedly sharing all the lurid details of her experience in the time-out room. She describes the various tortures that my so-called “higher self” administered to her father, many of which are quite imaginative. I admit that some of them even I had never thought of before. Beyond that, she emphatically believes the whole thing was a genuine psychic experience, instead of just a random hallucination or dream sequence within her drug-addled brain. She asks me if I had any interesting feelings or dreams during the past day. No, the day was ordinary, other than the fact that it was much quieter without the presence of my roommate, who I admit I had gotten used to having around. I didn’t have any notable dreams either, other than my recurring one about ravens in a damaged landscape.

“But, I can prove it! I just need to tell you something I wouldn’t have known otherwise. Err… I know! You have ‘A+’ blood, right?”

“That is true, however over 25% of the population has the ‘A positive’ blood type, so the probability is high that guess will cover it. Or you may have picked up that information from the staff, or even from me if I was, for example, subconsciously speaking in my sleep.”

After a short digression in which Marissa jokes that my blood type fits my grades in school, and that her own blood type (‘B-’ i.e. “be negative”) fits her own attitude towards life, she is still convinced of the veracity of her experience. She then describes my “mother”, and I do have to admit that, yes, that is what she looks like. However, such an appearance is expected, because both red hair and green eyes are the result of recessive genes, which means that in order for me to have both, it helps greatly to have one or both parents also have those traits. Marissa seems to be most interested in her so-called psychic vision that she believes shows abuse from my childhood.

“It could be true. I’m not going to reject your hypothesis, but I’m just saying that there’s no proof, and that strong claims require strong evidence. I have no memory of that time period in my life, so can’t say anything about your theory either way. In your story, a child gets severely whipped for having feelings, and therefore suppresses her emotions and grows up without any. I do have to admit that I’m skeptical, because it does seem to be too simplistic an explanation for my personality characteristics. On a similar note, nor should you necessarily assume that your anxiety and panic attacks are strictly due to your father’s criminal behavior, although that almost certainly has exacerbated the situation. Remember, I doubted you telling me your own story about not being suicidal while on the Golden Gate Bridge, so of course I’m going to have doubts about you telling me my own history. Again, I have no memory of my early childhood, and I honestly don’t know how I got the scars on my back.” Marissa, to her credit, doesn’t push the matter and ask me why I don’t just inquire with my “mother” where they came from.

Recovery for both of us proceeds well. I heal quickly. Even Donna remarks that she’s never seen anybody recover from a black eye that fast. Marissa says I must have a “very high constitution”, a term from the fantasy role playing games she likes. I suppose that’s true, since I apparently “succeeded on a bunch of fortitude saving throws” and didn’t die during my suicide attempt. She also says that if I were a fantasy character, I would have as many points as possible in a character skill called “intimidate”.

* * *

Marissa has barely recovered from her time in seclusion when she’s hit by something worse.

Marissa is 15 years old, and will turn 16 in just a few more days. She really wanted to have a _quinceañera_ party. That term is Spanish for “15 year old girl”, and is the coming of age celebration held at a young woman’s 15th birthday, which it would appear that almost all of the Latinas (and many non-Latina and non-Hispanic girls for that matter) have these days. However, her mother disallowed it, because she thinks it’s inappropriate for a supposedly virgin girl her age to be “acting like a whore”. Woman, you have no idea. Marissa’s told me how many different sexual partners she’s had so far. Let’s just say that you need more than your fingers to express the quantity.

Marissa’s mother did promise that she could have her coming of age party later that year, sometime before her 16th birthday. However, the date kept on getting pushed back, and then Marissa was admitted here. In another disastrous family visit by her mother that can only be described by using the colloquial term “train wreck”, her mother went back on her promise and said that due to Marissa’s recent behavior, she can forget about the party altogether. Apparently being mentally disturbed is bad enough and supposedly makes her entire family look bad, and her having attacked people and been sent to seclusion like a genuine crazy person makes the whole situation even more embarrassing. This time the staff did intervene in the visit, and let’s just say that the result wasn’t pretty.

Anyway, Marissa really wanted to have this party, and appears to be utterly devastated that she apparently will never have it. She feels like she can’t ever properly grow up without one, and will be trapped in childhood and immaturity forever unless it happens. Marissa, as expected, reacts with her usual crying fits. However, after a day of practically flooding the entire ward with tears her reaction changes, and she becomes withdrawn and silent. This is notable, and suggests Marissa may be getting ready to harm herself in a more serious fashion. I definitely know what it’s like to be suicidal, and as a result I have the capability to see it in others. When people cry, they are still involved with and reacting to life. It’s when they stop crying that the real risk begins.

Should I do anything about this situation? I asked myself a similar question when she was acting erratically. Marissa is my friend, although as my conversation with Donna demonstrates I can’t claim that I truly care about her. I do know that I would like for her to have her party. A logical way to handle this would be for Marissa to be given a suitable 16th birthday party, or a “Sweet Sixteen” as it’s often called, and have it here on the ward. I don’t ever break promises, and as a result I don’t think that anybody else, namely Marissa’s mother, should either. However, the situation that both Marissa and I are in, specifically being in the hospital without support from anybody else, will make producing a birthday party a significant challenge.

I assess my situation. I’m involuntarily locked in a psychiatric ward. I have no possessions, since I had nothing with me when I was brought here, and have had zero people bring me things from home, since I have had zero visitors period. Even all the clothes I’m wearing I have to borrow from Marissa. I might be able to get a few scraps of paper and related materials from art group, but there’s hardly anything I can use to produce anything resembling a decent birthday party. And no, the staff doesn’t provide birthday parties for patients, since they don’t want to treat people unequally. I also only have three more days to work with. All evidence suggests either I will be forced to give up, or else that Marissa is going to have a very poor quality sixteenth birthday.

I never smile, but if I did then I would be grinning at this time.

The people here have no idea what I’m truly capable of.

* * *

The next morning, I begin my plan in earnest. There are a number of things I need to do quickly, none of which are going to be particularly easy. Furthermore, I need to keep each of them secret from Marissa, because I intend to give her a surprise party. That is also challenging, especially in a small ward when the person you’re trying to hide things from is your roommate and friend, who is usually in close proximity with you throughout the day. Nevertheless, there are a few times we’re apart, the main example being when Marissa has her weekly appointment with her psychiatrist.

To begin with, I need to be a model patient with maximum privileges. That means having a green wristband. I was already pretty close to having one due to previous efforts (as was Marissa, at least before her episode). I say and do all the right things, and put extra effort into helping other patients in class and elsewhere. Perhaps I’m even too obvious about it, since some suggest that I want something, but that’s an acceptable reaction since I’m trying to be noticed. I ask for the upgrade and get it, although I’m warned that due to my suicidal ideation I will still be monitored as much as before. Fair enough, because I met my objective.

The moment Marissa steps away from me and enters the private room with Dr. Chen for her weekly appointment, I move quickly with the main part of my plan. Fortunately, Priya, the administrative assistant at the front desk, is both on duty at this time and cursing the computer again. Since the front desk is right across from room #1, I’ve had plenty of opportunities to hear her complaints. I know exactly what the problem is and how to fix it, but I’ve never said anything before now because there wasn’t anything I would gain from doing so. There is now.

I strike up a conversation with Priya, and let her know that I can fix the problem. She asks me what to do, and I try to tell her how to edit the Microsoft Windows registry, knowing full well from her novice level of computer expertise that she will have zero ability to actually accomplish that task. I offer to fix it myself, and get her to let me come back behind the desk with her. She’s suspicious that I’ll hack the computer, but I promise her that I won’t do anything bad, and that if I cause any problems then I most assuredly will be punished and lose my privileges. I hold up my green wristband for emphasis.

Since the alternative is to remain with her dysfunctional system, Priya agrees to let me sit down at the desk. She watches me closely, but within three minutes her computer is working well. She is very thankful, and probably doubted that I could even do it. Having done her a favor, I can now proceed to ask for a favor of my own. Priya, as expected, refuses to let me use her computer for my own purposes for any length of time, but I’m prepared for that response.

“Internet usage by patients isn’t strictly banned. It’s allowed if done under supervision, according to the hospital manual section 9E. Would you please be willing to supervise me? I’ll be very fast.” Priya reluctantly lets me continue for a short while, but that’s all I need.

My objective is to have certain people from outside the hospital visit me. As minors, normally the only people who are allowed to visit us are our parents or those who they have approved. Since my “mother” is away so often, she has given me access to family credit card and other accounts, and many of my requests to do various things get automatically approved. I e-mail her asking for specific people to be allowed to visit me. I doubt she will even see the message, and it will be her administrative assistant who will approve it, and do so quickly. The end result is that I can have almost anybody I choose to come here during visiting hours, which will be important shortly.

By this time I’ve attracted attention from a few other staff members, especially Corinne who appears to have a conniption upon seeing a patient in the staff area. I’m sure they would object to my setting the list of people who can visit me. Fortunately, only Priya was here for that part, and she didn’t understand what I was doing.

Anyway, I tell the rest of the staff who are present exactly what I’m planning to do, and why. In summary, I am ordering things online, starting with a decent quality birthday cake, and having them delivered to me here at the hospital. The delivery people will be approved visitors for me, and they will just drop items off and then immediately leave. Everything I receive in this manner can be inspected by staff, like everything else bought here, to ensure I can’t harm myself with it, before I come to collect it. Even knowing all the hospital rules, I think it’s a gray area for whether I can actually do this, but they don’t completely shut me down. They raise concerns about there being a party for a single patient, since other patients don’t get birthday parties, but I assuage their worries by saying that I’m taking care of and providing everything myself, and that everything will be shared. In other words, just think of this as a slightly larger than average care package from home, that will again be shared with everybody. I say the right things, such as doing this little project for another person can help me have a sense of purpose and therefore assist with my treatment plan. Perhaps that’s even true. Maybe I do care about something.

Even Donna looks amused at what I’m doing. By the time Marissa’s weekly visit is done, I’ve exited the staff office and am back in room #1 lying down on my bed innocently as if I never left. If I knew I could order things online and have them delivered to me, even when I’m a patient in a psychiatric hospital, then I would have bought myself a complete wardrobe a long time ago.

* * *

The night before Marissa’s birthday, most things are ready and in place for tomorrow. Unfortunately, I’ve run out of time, and don’t know how I’m going to decorate the day room, which is where the party will take place. They’ve already closed that room for the evening, so I can’t do anything right now, and Marissa is scheduled to be with me all day tomorrow until the appointed time. I have the decoration materials I ordered online with me, which arrived today and which I picked up from the front desk, after the contents were approved. However, I can’t bring them back into room #1 with me, because even in her depressed state Marissa would certainly notice. I consider the best course of action. Marissa would probably listen to her intuition or try to look for a sign from the universe to tell her what to do.

I hear the quiet rustling of paper nearby. I peer into room #14, and see Tsukiko sitting on her bed in the process of folding an extra piece of gold colored construction paper from art group into a very well fashioned origami dragon. The other bed is empty but made, meaning this is the narrow time slot in which not all beds on the ward are occupied. Yes, since I can’t complete this task on my own, I should get somebody else to do it for me tomorrow morning. Tsukiko might be the best choice here, since not only does she appear to be skilled in artistic areas, but she never talks and therefore can be trusted to not reveal anything that might find its way back to Marissa. Now I just have to figure out how to deal with an extremely shy girl, which isn’t easy when people seem to think that you’re intimidating. Marissa is more extroverted and socially adept than myself, and would probably find a way to get her to open up quickly. I could threaten Tsukiko to force her to do what I want, but somehow terrifying a tiny girl doesn’t seem like an appropriate course of action when I’m in the process of trying to make somebody else happy.

“Hello Tsukiko. I hope you are doing well this evening.” She doesn’t acknowledge me, and just keeps folding the finishing touches on her dragon. I step into the room.

“That’s a very nice piece of origami you’ve created there. I’ve seen you in the art groups, and your work is the most skilled of everybody here.” Tsukiko smiles broadly, and (still looking down) holds her dragon out to me, like she’s offering it as a gift.

I don’t need a paper dragon, especially since I want something different from her. However, I don’t want to directly refuse her offer either, so I proceed with another compliment. “I saw you in the linen closet a few days ago. You are also skilled at doing things while not being noticed.” She smiles and ducks her head under her blanket for a bit, again never speaking a word.

“I have some special art materials with me, and I would like to show them to you. Do you want to see them?”

It turns out she does want to see them, although she’s reticent about it and it takes a while to get her to actually take them from me. Tsukiko is so shy that she apparently thinks I’m doing her an enormous favor by letting her use or even see the materials, instead of the other way around. I actually make more progress when I tell her that she would be helping me a great deal, and if she is willing to quietly decorate the day room early tomorrow morning for me, then I’ll make sure she receives the first piece of cake. That makes her smile again. Everybody likes cake. I’m sure Tsukiko has an unusual background and unique personal story that resulted in her being here. If I cared more about such things, it might even be worth investigating. I give a few final soft and polite words of encouragement that I believe will help increase the chances of her actually doing what I requested, and then take my leave.

I get back to my room just as the staff announces lights out. Marissa mumbles something about wondering where I’ve been. I say something intentionally vague, and attempt to wish her good night in a manner which suggests that’s all she’s going to get from me. She sighs and turns away, facing the wall. Not that I want her to be depressed, but I do want her to be surprised when the time comes.

It’s rare that I feel anything, but I recognize a subtle feeling at this time. I can even define it: Hope. I do hope that Marissa will like what I’ve done. One way or another, tomorrow is going to be a significant day for both of us.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Brin is ordering herself things online while inpatient. This reminds me of a funny true story of how the FBI was investigating hospitals for fraud, and after a while ordered a bunch of pizzas. Imagine you’re working at a pizza place when somebody claiming to be an FBI agent calls from a psychiatric hospital and asks you to deliver 19 pizzas there! Yeah, I’d be skeptical too: https://www.snopes.com/fact-check/pizza-spy/ ;-)


	10. Marissa - My Sweet 16

* * *

I wake up on the morning of my 16th birthday. I open my eyes, and two evil looking green orbs are right in front of my face. Brin is staring down at me. “Happy birthday, Marissa.”

I jump wildly and almost fall out of bed. My heart is pounding. How long has she been watching me sleep? “Jesus fucking Christ Brin, you scared the shit out of me! Haven’t enough people told you your stare is creepy as fuck?”

“Yes, they have. But your first experience on this significant milestone in your life should be someone wishing you a happy birthday. It’s the least I could do, since, as you can see, I don’t have any presents for you in the room.”

Brin keeps going. “I know these circumstances aren’t what you wanted. But I am stating that I’ll do what I can for you today to the best of my ability. I will make your birthday memorable one way or another, or I’ll die trying.”

Ha ha, or Brin says she’ll die trying. That’s a funny thing to hear from the suicidal girl! But seriously, this is sweet of her. The shock on waking up made me forget, at least for a second, about being depressed as fuck about my sucky birthday. I know Brin cares about me, and is trying at least. I really wasn’t suicidal or anything the past couple days. I had just given up on life more than usual. Speaking of which, I wasn’t suicidal on the Bridge either, even through Brin doesn’t believe me. Brin’s super smart, but she’s not right about everything. She’s pretty close though!

Half way through the first group today, Brin gets up to leave for some reason. She tells me to stay and enjoy myself, since it’s my birthday. Ok, whatever. Afterward, I walk back to our room. In the hallway outside our room I see something pale blue, which is my favorite color. It’s a pale blue colored balloon on the ground, peeking out of our doorway. I pick it up and step into our room, and oh my god!

There are several more pale blue balloons around the room. Laid out on my bed is an Elsa dress, as in Elsa from “Frozen”, my favorite movie ever, along with a blond wig and crown. On Brin’s bed is a dress for the character Anna. There are also three brightly colored bags on my bed, with colored tissue at the top hiding whatever’s inside them. It’s obvious they’re gift bags, especially since one says “Happy Birthday” and has a bunch of little drawings of slices of cake on its sides. Where in god’s name did all this come from?

I’m staring at it all with my mouth wide open, when suddenly I hear a voice behind me right in my ear. “Surprise.” Brin was secretly in the room, standing to the side of the doorway.

For the second time today I just about jump out of my skin! Seriously, Brin, fuck! She can scare the shit out of you with just one word.

This is all so much! Somehow, Brin had to have done all this for me. I don’t know what to say, and I try to keep from crying. “But… I thought you said you didn’t have presents for me! You never lie, Brin!”

“I didn’t lie. I said I didn’t have presents in our room this morning. I never said there weren’t presents for you elsewhere, which I would later retrieve. It’s not my fault if you misunderstood me.” Brin never smiles, however if she did smile, I believe she would be grinning at this moment. Brin’s usually dead looking eyes are almost sparkling.

I knew Brin was up to something the past few days, but I wasn’t expecting this! I was thinking she had finally given up on me, and was just working hard in groups and such trying to get better so she could get out of the hospital, and get away from my boring depressing self. I’m wiping away a tear when Brin walks up to me.

“Marissa Isabelle Rodriguez, welcome to the start of your _quinceañera_ party. Although, since you are actually sixteen years old today and this is your ‘Sweet Sixteen’, I suppose that makes this a _dieciséisañera_ party instead. However, given the cultural significance of the occasion, let’s still use the former name. I should add that ‘party’ is an accurate term to use, because in exactly two hours there will be an event for you in the day room, which most everybody will be attending, and therefore we should proceed to get ourselves ready for it, starting with our costumes.”

Ha ha, Brin is the only person other than my mother to have ever called me by my first, middle, and last names! Anyhoo, I look at the two dresses on our beds. I’ve always wanted to dress up as a character from “Frozen”, and really wanted to have somebody to do the Elsa and Anna sisters thing with me. Oh my god, this is going to be a “Frozen” theme birthday party! Wow, Brin really does get me! Well, except for one thing: The Elsa dress is on my bed. “Wait, so I’m supposed to be Elsa?”

“Yes, Elsa is queen of Arendelle, and you’re the birthday girl. There’s no wig for the Anna costume, and Anna has red hair like I do. My hair isn’t as long as Anna’s, especially when braided, but it will still be an acceptable resemblance. You’ve also informed me that pale blue, like the color of Elsa’s dress, is your favorite color on more than one occasion.”

Brin does the logic thing well, but she doesn’t feel energies like I do. I tell Brin that she’s way more like Elsa, and I’m way more like Anna. Brin should wear the Elsa dress and the blond wig instead. Besides, my hair is a bit too long to fit within the wig. I’ll do something else to make my hair red like Anna’s. If only I had some ribbons, I could braid them into my hair, but they won’t let us have anything like string that we could use to hang ourselves with. Being on a psych ward really does suck sometimes. Or all the time for that matter!

“As you wish, especially since I do agree with your psychological assessment of the characters. However, you are the birthday girl, so I insist that you wear the queen’s crown, especially since the young woman who’s the focus of a _quinceañera_ often wears a tiara or related embellishment.”

Having gotten the costume thing sorted out, I can’t wait anymore! It’s time to open presents! We’ll get dressed up afterward. I playfully bat away a few blue balloons, and pick up the first bag. I hear some plastic rattling around. Inside is a makeup kit, with a decent amount of goodies in it. Including purple eyeshadow, so Brin will really be able to do the Elsa thing right. She informs me that only green wristband people are allowed makeup, because otherwise there’s too much risk of disturbed people eating it, breaking the plastic parts to form weapons, and crap like that. Really, that means only Brin should be able to use the makeup, but I won’t tell if she doesn’t!

On to present number two! This one’s larger and heavier. Inside is a pale blue pair of high heeled shoes. They’re sparkly and not really practical for day to day use, but I get the meaning. This is the “Change of Shoes” part of the _quinceañera_ party, in which the birthday girl gets her first pair of high heels, and is supposed to change from slippers into them since she’s a woman now. I’ve of course worn heels before, but don’t have any here, so this is cool. Anyhoo, wearing four inch heels I feel really tall. I’m a couple inches taller than Brin now!

The final present is soft and very light. Inside is a pale blue dress, which is glitzy and sparkly and like something you’d see on “Dancing with the Stars”. Ok, I can’t keep it in anymore, and the tears start flowing freely. I wanted this dress so much, but never thought I would get it here. Or ever thought I would get it at all, since my family is poor as fuck. Many of the clothes and things I have now I get bought for me by guys who are into me, who of course always want something in return for it. Anyhoo, I guess I described my favorite dress enough in our long conversations here that Brin could actually go order it! I’ve talked enough with her that she knows my sizes and all.

Brin hands me some tissue. Ha ha, did she prep in advance for me crying? “You’ve let me wear your clothes without complaint, so now it’s my turn to give you clothes in return.”

So, I really want to wear my new dress now, especially since the heels go perfect with it, but in a rare bit of discipline I know I shouldn’t do that here in the hospital. I’m afraid it will get torn or something spilled on it. It looks like Brin had the same idea, which is why we have the “Frozen” dresses instead.

Makeup isn’t really Brin’s thing, although she did a good job picking out my first present. Since that’s my area, I do the makeup for both of us. Anyway, once we’re all dressed up, it’s time to consider my hair. My black as fuck hair, which should be red to be like Anna from “Frozen”.

Oh I know! The red tissue paper from one of the gift bags. I can cut it into slices and braid that into my hair. Brin fetches some cheap plastic safety scissors, which normally you can’t have in rooms but Brin was allowed to get since she’s green wristband now. But, no, that doesn’t work, because tissue paper is too delicate and keeps tearing when I try to stick it in my hair, and it doesn’t really look that good either. But then I get another idea! One of the gift bags is made out of red organza fabric. I ask Brin if I can cut it up, and she’s like it’s your bag and your party so do whatever you want. So anyhoo I cut the whole thing in a spiral pattern, resulting in two long strips of red fabric. That works great, and braiding them into my hair gives it the red accents I’m looking for.

So yeah, it’s my birthday! I’m growing up, I got presents, I’m with a good friend who actually gives a shit about me, and there’s an actual party coming up. This is the happiest I’ve been in a long time!

* * *

Together, dressed up as the sisters from “Frozen”, Brin leads us into the day room. Inside is a bunch more blue balloons, along with streamers and other birthday decorations. Brin is carrying the balloons that were in our room, and adds them to the ones here.

Wow, not just presents, but I’m getting a full party! I have no idea how Brin managed to put everything together and get decorations and even a birthday cake, much less our costumes and presents. The movie “Frozen” is already playing on the screen. Brin actually looks kind of surprised too while looking at the decorations, and mutters half to herself. “Not bad. That little girl must have a powerful pair of lungs, because she even inflated all of the balloons.”

One thing I know about having a party, or anything cool at all for that matter, is people react differently. Some are happy for you, while others are jealous. The same goes for the staff. There’s an intern standing next to the cake, maybe guarding it so people don’t eat it yet? She glares at us, and looks like she doesn’t want to be here.

“Seriously, you two are wearing party dresses, like little girls? My daughter’s only 10 and she already thinks ‘Frozen’ is babyish.” I half expect her to complain about a Hispanic girl liking “Frozen”, and that “Coco” should be my favorite movie instead. Fuck you bitch, my favorite movie can be whatever I want it to be!

Before I can say anything, Brin replies so smoothly it’s like she planned what to say ahead of time. “One, in the story Anna is 18 years old and Elsa is 21. That means the two main characters are older than every girl here. Two, what would you prefer us watch? Perhaps something violent or sexual? I expect most parents would be relieved to see their teens watching something wholesome like Disney instead of doing drugs, or getting pregnant, or…”

She stops talking because Donna enters the room then, carrying a pile of paper plates and forks. “Ok ladies, listen up! Corinne sent me to keep close watch on you all. Her exact words were something like, ‘A bunch of inpatient teenagers on a sugar high is not conducive to appropriate behavior.’ So enjoy, but don’t overdo it.”

Brin cuts the cake, using one of those little white plastic knifes since they of course won’t let us have a real one in here. Brin can be serious and intimidating, but not when she’s handing out cake while dressed up as Elsa, hee hee! She’s mobbed by a bunch of girls who all want some. Even quiet little Tsukiko, who usually always hides by herself in the back of the room, is right in front. Aww, that’s sweet, I see Brin hand her the first piece of cake.

The cake by the way is “Frozen” themed too, with a very nicely drawn frosted Elsa and Anna upon it. Brin tries to say that this fits the “Last Doll” tradition of the _quinceañera_ , in which the girl gives away the last of her dolls to indicate she’s grown up now, and that sharing the cake with the “Frozen” characters upon it can be a way to do this. Everybody’s eating their cake or watching the movie, so nobody but me is really paying attention to her, but I think it’s super cool that Brin knows about this!

This whole party is actually pretty lit! Heck, I’d like it even if we weren’t trapped in a psych ward. I’m so energetic and bouncing around, not counting the sugar high, that Brin says I should dance, especially since that’s another _quinceañera_ tradition. I try to get Brin to dance with me, but she says “I don’t dance”. That makes me burst out laughing, because that’s the exact same line Elsa says in the movie when the Duke of Weselton tries to get her to dance. Brin then adds that dancing would make her trip over her long Elsa dress that’s trailing on the floor behind her. I know she doesn’t want to, so I don’t push it. But I do add “get Brin to dance” to my inner to-do list along with getting her to cry, smile, and laugh someday.

People are playing various games, until some people start doing stare fights, to see who blinks first. They get others in on it, until we have a big group staring contest going on. We quickly see that stare fights are a bad choice of game when Brin’s in the house. She crushes every other girl without losing once. I lasted about three seconds before blinking, although I did enjoy looking deeply into Brin’s intense green eyes. Brin’s Scorpio rising stare can make a stone statue blink and turn away first. So, I just realized something that makes Brin creepy. Brin never blinks! Seriously, I don’t know if I’ve ever seen her blink. She has to blink sometime right, otherwise her eyes would dry out, wouldn’t they?

Anyhoo, people are trying to find a girl who can face Brin, when someone says Brin should go up against the adults. Obvious choice is Donna, who’s not only badass and should be a good matchup for her, but is also in the room. Donna is trying to get out of it, saying this is you girls’ party, and I’m just here to keep an eye on you all. However Brin seems to like the idea: “Hospital manual section 7C says that staff is allowed to coordinate as well as participate in group entertainment activities.”

Donna sighs and mutters something about regretting leaving that manual out where Brin could find it. “Ok fine, but I’m not going to go easy on you.”

“I expect nothing less.”

What follows is the most epic stare fight I’ve ever seen! Brin and Donna sit across the table from each other, with a few girls keeping close watch on each of them to see if they blink. Brin hits Donna with her intense gaze, and Donna calmly faces her back. I know Brin and Donna seem to have some sort of rivalry thing going on between them. They’re not just trying to win the stare fight. They’re really trying to win against each other.

As the minutes tick by, girls get restless, although they still keep a close eye on both of them. Karla, all 200 plus pounds of her, stumbles accidentally (or maybe intentionally) into Donna, but Donna keeps her balance and keeps going. A minute later, someone spills their blue drink on the table, and Brin has to stand up quickly to keep juice from pouring over the edge on to her Elsa dress.

After five minutes, they’re both still going (although looking a bit frazzled) and even I’m wondering if the championship round will ever be decided. How long is it possible to go without blinking? A chime sounds indicating visiting hours have begin. Donna shifts position, but doesn’t stop staring. “Brin, fun time is over unfortunately. I need to go attend that.”

“Very well, I don’t want you to have to forfeit. Shall we intentionally conclude this contest and make it a draw?”

“Yes, let’s blink on the count of three. One… Two… Three!”

I half expect Brin or even Donna to cheat and let the other one blink and not blink themselves, but I’m watching closely and they both close their eyes at the exact same time. Donna stands up and rapidly blinks a bunch of times, her eyes watering. Before leaving she mutters to herself. “I swear, one of these days you girls are going to be the death of me.”

Brin isn’t very expressive and hardly ever shows discomfort, but there’s definitely some now. She’s standing in the middle of the room, holding her hands to her face tightly. “Oh my non-existent god, it feels like somebody ripped my eyeballs out.” Ha ha, I may be raised Christian, but I also believe in karma. Brin threatening to rip Susie’s eyes out the day I got here (and actually ripping my dad’s eye out during my vision quest) are enough for her to attract an experience like this. But wait, if karma is for real then I must have really been an asshole in a past life! Speaking of being an asshole, I don’t want to be one now, so I go to support my friend. When Brin removes her hands, her eyes are bloodshot and she looks like a crazy Elsa getting ready to freeze the whole world. But here too she recovers quickly and is back to normal in a few minutes. Well, as “normal” as things can be for people like us.

* * *

Alas, nothing good lasts forever.

All too soon my party is over. With the start of visiting hours, the day room is cleared out and the last bit of cake and drinks are moved to a nearby conference room. I go there while Brin stays in the day room to clean up. She doesn’t let me help, since it’s my birthday and all.

Girls have been popping balloons by accident (or on purpose) the whole party. I’m really sad when my last blue balloon gets popped. I have a bunch of good memories, along with Brin’s presents, but somehow the balloons dying make the end of my party feel real. I suppose its end means I’m really sixteen years old and should act like an adult now. But I’m still sad about it!

Most of us are in the conference room, along with the first few visitors. They’re people’s parents and stuff. My mom isn’t visiting today, since she’s still mad at me or too busy or whatever. That’s sad too, to not have anybody visit you on your own birthday, although Brin giving me my _quinceañera_ party helps a lot!

So, you know how the psych ward carefully searches new patients for anything on them that they can use to hurt themselves? They do that, and also search anything that’s left behind for someone here. That’s why Brin’s stuff that she ordered like the cake and costumes had to be reviewed by staff before she could have them. Anyhoo, although they carefully search patients, they don’t do the same for visitors. Visitors for example may have things like shoes with shoelaces, pocket knives, and such, which they’re not allowed to leave here. That means visitors could smuggle things in. I’ve even seen this! I’ve seen visitors smuggle in phones so their daughters can use the internet, and even bring in drugs. I’ve never said anything before, since I’m not a narc. It would be cool if my mom or brothers would bring me something cool, but they’re not willing to.

I’m looking at a man in the conference room when I notice a bulge in his pants. Hey, I’m not dirty minded all the time, just most of the time, ha ha! The bulge isn’t in front where his balls are, but off to the side. Yes, he’s packing heat! Wow, I bet the staff would complain about him having a gun, if they knew about it. But it’s not like you have to go through metal detect thingies when coming here, like you do at the courthouse. So, my imagination is running away with me, like it usually does, with all the bad things that could happen with this.

I really have to watch myself. It seems like I can’t imagine a bad reality without creating it.

Karla comes by, and bumps into him hard like how she bumped into Donna earlier. When he’s distracted, she grabs for his gun and pulls it out of its holster thing. Looks like she saw it too! By the time he realizes what’s happened, Karla’s pointing the gun at him. Wow, she really is one of the “schizos” as Brin calls them! I can’t tell if Karla is mad about something, or even knows what she’s doing.

Unless you’ve grown up on the wrong side of the tracks, you have no idea the fear that comes from actually having a gun pointed at you. People often say they would just do some ninja move and grab the gun back, or try to talk sense into them. Really, when you see a gun you either panic and flee, or panic and do whatever the hell they tell you to do. In this case, the man freaks out, and tries to shield his daughter or whoever he’s visiting. Aww, that’s sweet of him to not just save himself. Anyhoo, someone screams, and then most everybody acts like they do when a mass shooting takes place. Corinne’s at the far end of the room frantically trying to herd everybody out the only door, but she doesn’t really need to do anything since there’s a tidal wave of screaming people rushing past her.

I however act instinctually. I jump at Karla and try to grab the gun. If I had a decent enough phone to actually play “Pokémon GO”, I would definitely choose to join Team Instinct in it, ha ha! I know fighting an active shooter isn’t a wise thing to do, but I’ve already done it before I can think.

So, remind me not to insult fat people from now on. They’re stronger than they look! Karla may be younger than me, but she’s still really strong, and unlike Brin she fights back. She’s groaning loudly and not saying anything I can make out. Was I like that when I attacked Brin? Anyhoo, we’re struggling with both our hands around the grip near the trigger area, with the gun waving around in different directions. I bet you can guess what happens next?

BANG!

Holy fuck gunshots are loud! Especially when they go off right by your ear! And ouch the kickback is really hard on the hands too. I see a small hole in the conference room wall that the bullet made. Although I can’t grab the gun away from her, I do get an angle on it. I flip it away from both of us, and it skids across the conference table and falls off the far edge. However, doing that leaves me open to Karla. She shoves me hard and I fall down to the ground. Now I know how it felt for Brin when I threw her down the other week. Karma isn’t fun when it happens to you! Karla’s still screeching (I can’t tell if she’s crying or what now) and stomps out of the room herself.

I slowly get up. My hair has come undone and is all in my face, and I can’t see a thing. Long hair really does get in the fucking way of everything! I’m glad when I can finally see again, but then quickly wish I was born without eyeballs.

Somehow Brin managed to enter the room during the chaos, and picked up the gun. She’s now pointing it at her own head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Television shows used to only have cliffhangers at the end of seasons. The Netflix era often has continual cliffhangers at the end of every episode, encouraging you to binge watch. Is Brin going to finally kill herself? Tune in next chapter to find out! Sorry not sorry for the cliffhanger. ;-)


	11. Brin - Let It Go…

* * *

It seems like the whole world is frozen. “Frozen” is an appropriately synchronous term to use, considering the title of the movie that was used as the theme of Marissa’s 16th birthday party.

I’m holding a Glock 19 9mm pistol. Yes, I’ve researched enough about handguns to recognize it, although this is the first time I’ve ever held or even seen one of this particular model. I also know where and how to hold the pistol against my head such that firing it will ensure my death, instead of for example just ricocheting away, or blowing my face off and leaving me disabled, disfigured, and in pain for life. I pull back the hammer with my thumb to cock it, so just a slight pull of the trigger is all it takes to fire. Doing so produces a soft metallic click. Yes, I can tell it’s still loaded, and I know enough to check that the safety is still off. In the later stages of the struggle between my roommate and Karla, it may have inadvertently been put on, and I want to avoid a dramatic scene in which I pull the trigger and nothing happens, creating the opportunity for somebody to lunge at me and remove the gun from my possession.

At this point in time the entire conference room has emptied out, except for Marissa and me. She’s standing about 10 feet to my left, which is close enough to lunge at me if she wanted to, like she apparently did when Karla had the gun. (I wasn’t present for the first part of their conflict.) However, currently Marissa is standing still, silent and seemingly frozen in place, which is rare for her. However, she’s mentioned having a tendency to freeze during times of crisis, and I suppose that what’s happening now counts as one.

An alarm sounds in the building, a strong but peculiar sound that I haven’t heard before during all of my previous weeks here. I also hear a “code silver” announced over the hospital PA system. I don’t know what that means exactly, but I suspect that it has to do with what’s taking place now.

Donna enters the room, alert and cautious. She appears to quickly assess the situation. Donna is fast enough that she could probably wrest the gun away from me if she were reasonably close. However, she’s currently 20 feet away from me near the door, and the entire length of the conference room table lies between us. The table is heavy enough that she can’t shove it into my stomach or attempt any similar maneuver. Her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t make any attempt to get closer to me. Donna is calm enough as can be expected given the situation. “I don’t suppose there’s anything I can say that would make you put the gun down?”

“No, there isn’t. You are not in control here, Donna. I am.”

I could actually shoot Donna, if I wanted to. However, she’s so agile that it would probably be a challenge to actually hit her with a bullet. Assuming that I kill or incapacitate Donna, then there are enough cartridges in the magazine that I could cause quite a few deaths, and fight my way out of the ward and through much of the hospital, and perhaps even escape the building altogether, before reaching the last bullet which I would use on myself.

Marissa is looking at me in a very odd manner. It’s full of feeling, which is common for her, however her expression is different than any I’ve seen before. I’m not the best at parsing emotions, especially since it’s apparent that there are several different emotions present simultaneously, but the sense I’m getting is that she’s allowing me to kill myself if I want to. That is unexpected. I anticipated that she would try to talk me out of it, or attack me, however to let me do it, and not in a resigned or apathetic manner, but rather in an accepting manner that indicates she supports my quest to kill myself, and more importantly is giving me the opportunity to do so, is quite surprising.

I appreciate the sense of power I have at this time. I can understand why some people find discharging or even just holding a firearm to be an intoxicating experience. I have always been in control of my life, and it’s a very strong sense of control at this time. I control my body, feelings, memories, thoughts, reactions, and now my life as a whole. I don’t bask in the situation for long, however, because my pseudo-emotional assessment of myself has gone on long enough, and it’s time to progress forward and finally kill myself. My finger is on the trigger, and it will only take a slight movement to fire the gun. I’m ready. However, I hesitate, just like I did when getting ready to cut my arteries. What’s going on now? Although that’s not what I intended to happen, it is at least consistent with my earlier behavior. I contemplate my best course of action. This is another one of those significant junction moments in my life, similar to the one in which I met Marissa for the first time, in which the action taken at this point will have lifelong ramifications. It’s time to make a decision, and act accordingly. I might as well do it with a bit of panache.

I look at Donna, who meets my gaze. I speak a line I quickly compose for the occasion: “It’s dangerous to have firearms in a psychiatric ward. If we’re not careful, somebody could easily kill themselves or hurt somebody else.”

I place the gun on the table, barrel pointed at the wall so it won’t threaten anybody. I give it a firm push, and it slides all the way down the length of the table. In a quality example of aim working out, it stops just a few inches short from Donna’s hands. Without a word she immediately picks it up, clicks the safety on, and places it inside a bag.

Now all three of us are silent and frozen in place. That lasts for only a few seconds, until Donna starts speaking.

“You two stay here, and don’t move. I mean it! This whole place is going to be swarming with cops in a few minutes. I hope you realize that…” Donna speaks in a rather severe tone of voice, until she’s interrupted by loud voices outside. Still looking at us, she quickly backs out of the room, already starting talking to whoever is outside. An upcoming police presence should be expected shortly, since I can already see red and blue flashing lights reflecting off the window. A couple minutes ago this room was full of people and noise, but now it’s completely silent, with only Marissa (who is still frozen) and me within it.

I’ve realized something, and I don’t know when it happened or how it crept up on me. For the first time in years, I’m not suicidal.

* * *

Feelings are not something I have very often, but I am able to recognize several unusual internal sensations at this point. I should begin by clarifying that “not suicidal” isn’t some sudden major change in my disposition. Life is still irrelevant, and I’m still numbly disconnected from it. I still don’t want to live, but I’m no longer actively trying to kill myself. I just chose not to shoot myself in the head, even though I had the perfect opportunity to do so. Although I made that decision, I do sense a small sense of regret that I didn’t take advantage of that opportunity, and that I won’t get another one like it ever again. I’ve been suicidal for so long, that I also sense a bit of what I’d have to label as sadness, like a role that I’ve identified with for so long must now be discarded. If I’m not going to kill myself on the ward, then that means I’m eventually going to be released, which is something I hadn’t planned or even seriously thought about before now. There’s also a minor sense of apprehension about going through the process to get “better” and get discharged, and beyond that continuing life, and ultimately getting a job and all the other things that life entails.

Besides, I have to admit that committing suicide or embarking upon a mass shooting while wearing a full Elsa costume would look rather ridiculous.

My sense that Marissa is happy that I didn’t kill myself is confirmed in a most emphatic fashion when suddenly she literally launches herself though the air at me with a high pitched squeal. She bear hugs me, and we both tumble to the floor. This is the second time that Marissa has knocked me over down to the ground, although this time the process is much gentler. My rump hits the ground first helping to break our fall, and it’s carpeted in this room, unlike the hard tile in the hallways.

“It was your choice, Brin, and I knew I had to let you decide for yourself, but I’m really, really glad you didn’t do it!” She squeals again, loudly, and then rapidly kisses me over and over upon my face.

Ack, I’m being smothered here. “I love you too, Marissa. Now, please, get off of me.”

Right at this moment a police officer enters the room, and briefly looks around. It would appear that the incoming police presence had made its way up to our ward already. The man is quite young, and probably just a few years older than me. Seriously, what is it with people arriving in our proximity whenever Marissa and I are in compromising positions? I consider the scene from his point of view. I doubt he has ever been in a psychiatric hospital before, so he is probably expecting to see stereotypical scenes of insanity such as people who think they are Jesus, Napoleon, or other significant figures. Instead, he enters a room and sees Anna lying on top of Elsa, as if this were a scene from a poor quality adult film with a “Frozen” theme. The officer may think we’re suffering from dissociative identity disorder, or in other words multiple personalities. Given the unusual circumstances, I might as well confirm his likely biases with a suitable remark for the situation.

“Hello, good sir. Have you seen a snowman? His name is Olaf, and he likes warm hugs.” The officer gets an incredulous look upon his face, and quickly ducks out of the room.

Marissa bursts out laughing at my lines. She says she’s sorry for kissing my face without permission, especially given the whole “don’t do things to others without their consent” theme of her psychotic episode. I respond that I appreciate her apology, but that I don’t mind what she did, especially considering the extraordinary extenuating circumstances. I inform her that if she ever does something that I don’t want her to do, then I will make my position on that matter clear.

Marissa barely has enough time to put her hair back in order (which had come undone during her altercation with Karla) before the police enter the conference room again, this time in force. They grab both Marissa and me in a manner that suggests we will be roughly tackled if we fail to comply, handcuff our hands behind our backs, and make us sit down in the corner. This evening continues to proceed like a poor quality adult film with a “Frozen” theme, since now it features a scene with Anna and Elsa both in handcuffs. Law enforcement can be inconsistent, and at times it seems to act in an overreactive fashion. Once Donna was given the gun, that should have concluded the incident. However, based on the noises I hear in the hall outside the conference room, it would appear that the police are treating the entire ward as if there were an active shooter within it. They’re going room to room, clearing the area, and handcuffing or zip tying anybody who resists in the slightest fashion (which turns out to be a significant percentage given the mental conditions of those present).

As I’ve learned on a few previous occasions, Marissa has a strong aversion to being restrained in any fashion, and therefore really doesn’t like being handcuffed. She’s on the verge of panicking or acting out in a potentially harmful fashion, which isn’t likely to turn out well when the police are still swarming over the ward. I endeavor to calm her, in which I continue the “Frozen” theme.

“Don’t worry, if anybody tries to harm you I’ll blast them with my cold powers. What? I’m not lying when I say I have cold based abilities. I have an icy stare that can give people nightmares, or so I’ve been told.”

I wouldn’t have expected that our current situation would be too distressing, since nothing bad should happen to Marissa with both myself and law enforcement in the vicinity. Of course, anxiety isn’t always logical, and doesn’t always have easily defined sources. I try to comfort her in a few different manners, but nothing seems to work, at least not until I make a casual remark hoping that she gets over it. “I’m serious Marissa, can’t you just let it go?”

“Ha ha, Brin, you said ‘Let It Go’ while dressed up as Elsa! You’re so funny sometimes, and what’s funnier is you’re not even trying to be funny!” Marissa, in spite of a number of attempts on her part, has never made me laugh, but I at least can make her laugh.

* * *

If the reaction of the police was overdone, that’s nothing compared to how the staff reacts afterward.

Eventually, the police finish their investigation and come to the same conclusion that I did over an hour ago: There are no more potential shooters or unattended firearms in the building. After they finally leave, and we’re no longer handcuffed, the hospital staff then for some reason proceeds to do an exhaustive search of everybody’s rooms. They do this occasionally, in which they go through a patient’s belongings and search their room for anything not allowed or that they might use to hurt themselves. I’m familiar with the process, and since they’ve considered me to be high risk, they have had my room searched more often than most. They’ve never found anything, because I never found anything strong enough that I could use for a genuine suicide attempt, as opposed to just a session of self-harm that would just get me sent to the time out room or potentially the higher security ward.

Afterward, Marissa and I are both called into the main office. Almost the entire staff is present, including some who are usually off duty at this time, who may have been called in once the incident took place. I doubt they are in a very good mood, and not just because they’re still here well after hours. Dr. Chen, Corinne, Donna, and a few others are all present. Judging by their grim faces, I expect some punishment is forthcoming. To say they are angry with us is an understatement. Transferring us both to the high security ward is supposedly the least of our concerns. For starters, they want to separate us from each other permanently. Although we weren’t arrested or taken away by the police, there are apparently crimes we could be charged with. They not only severely disapprove of our actions, but also the results our actions may have on others. These others range from other patients who may have been terrified enough to need additional psychiatric treatment, to the hospital itself and how knowledge of a shooter on the premises may affect its reputation and reduce future funding.

It seems our fates are sealed one way or another, until Donna, who has yes to say anything, makes a remark. “Before finishing here, why don’t we let these two speak first?”

I start to carefully formulate appropriate arguments in support of our actions, but Marissa jumps right in right away with a torrent of words.

“I know I shouldn’t say this, but I’m going to anyway: Fuck you! Seriously, fuck all of you! I kept Karla from shooting anybody. And at great risk to myself I might add. You should give me a medal and free cake for a year! Imagine how your precious hospital image would be if she had actually shot somebody? So yeah, please excuse me when I tell you all to fuck off! You should at least go easy on Brin. She could have killed herself, but didn’t. The whole reason why she’s here is that she tried to kill herself, so if she didn’t when she could have, you know, then why the fuck is she even still a patient here? You should give her a medal too for being a good girl and giving the gun to Donna. For that matter, you should go easy on Karla too. Where the fuck is she by the way? She’s a retard or whatever the correct term is these days, and I don’t feel she had any idea what she was doing. Seriously, Karla is a bird brain.”

I use this opportunity to chime in for the first time. “I agree, Karla has the intelligence and disposition of a cute baby kingfisher.” That wasn’t an inaccurate comparison, because not only is Karla intellectually challenged, but she was wearing blue and green tones today in a remarkable similarity to the avian in question. However, my speaking attracts the attention of my roommate. Marissa whirls upon me.

“And you Brin, fuck you most of all! You think you could just kill yourself on my birthday? Seriously, I can’t even! You have no idea how much that hurt me and fucked with my feelings. I’m fucked up in the head enough already, and don’t need you to make it worse! You’re probably the most real friend I’ve ever had. Yeah, you’re like ‘Hi Marissa, happy birthday, here’s a nice Anna dress for you, and here allow me to blow my brains out and cover your new dress in my blood and guts.’ Sure thing, thanks a lot Brin! And people say I’m the crazy one. Hey, that’s cool you didn’t do it! And I forgive you, so I’m not going to unfriend you or anything like that. But seriously, fuck you Brin! Fuck you to the moon and back!”

Marissa turns to face the staff again. “Look, I realize I’m not in control here. Really, it’s up to you all what happens to Brin and me now. I say we both did well today, and should stay here, together, until you finally let us go. Starting today I’m an adult, and I’m ready to act and be treated as one.”

Marissa, without being excused, leaves the room with her head held high, closing the door (or more accurately slamming it) a little harder than necessary. She looks like a queen, especially since she’s still wearing the full Anna costume including her crown. I’m impressed, not just about everything that she said, but for another reason.

For once Marissa didn’t cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When talking with somebody who’s suicidal (or depressed, or many other problems for that matter) it’s important to not invalidate their feelings. Truly caring about someone and working with them where they are, is much more effective than offering impersonal advice (unless they specifically ask you for advice) or a list of “you shoulds”. Especially avoid guilt tripping, which just makes one feel worse and even more worthless or isolated. Seriously, if I hear “it gets better” or “think of your family” one more time… :-P


	12. Marissa - But I don’t want to be crazy

* * *

I wake up the morning after my 16th birthday. The shower running makes a peaceful sound like a brook babbling in the mountains, which welcomes me out of my dreams and back into the real world. The sound stops, and I look up from my bed to see Brin entering the room from our tiny bathroom. Holy fuck girl, put some clothes on! Or don’t, I don’t mind the view, ha ha! Seriously, Brin has to be the most… striking person I’ve ever laid eyes on, with flaming red hair, her intense look, and scars all up and down her pale body. I still haven’t gotten used to that she seems to have no modesty.

Anyhoo, once we’re both showered and dressed, we talk. What do we talk about? Last night, of course! We were really tired (or at least I was) after all that happened, so didn’t say much after I stormed out of the main office. Speaking of which, I have to make sure Brin and I are still ok. “So, you’re really not mad at me for cussing you out?”

“Well, I can’t deny that you did make a number of valid points.”

Brin even says she’s sorry for causing me distress. That’s the first time I’ve ever heard her say sorry about anything! Ok, she told me about saying sorry when she was unconscious during her suicide attempt, but that doesn’t count since I wasn’t there. Brin even says she cares about me, and that killing herself in front of me was something she didn’t want to do. I’m thankful she sees that! Actually, I’m thankful for a bunch of other things too.

“Thank you for the party, Brin. You gave me a birthday that I will never, ever, ever forget! For many reasons! I loved those balloons by the way. Too bad the fuckers here popped them all.”

“They didn’t pop all the balloons. I saved and deflated a few of them for archival purposes.” Brin hands me three pale blue balloons that are no longer blown up. Wow, call me sentimental, but I’m going to keep them forever! It turns out Tsukiko, who Brin had blow up the balloons before my party, can also let the air out of them. It’s really hard to untie a balloon once it’s been blown up and tied off like that, but hey we all have our talents!

At breakfast and elsewhere, the other girls seem happy to see us. I don’t think anybody is mad at us, even those who got handcuffed and such. They liked all the excitement of the party and even what came after! Our street cred has never been higher, ha ha! Seriously, shooting a gun in the hospital will do that for you, and I’m sure this story will be talked about for years! I point out the bullet hole in the wall of the conference room to some new girls, until Corinne gets pissed off at us and covers it up with a poster.

For some reason, the whole ward seems to be in a good mood, or at least an ok mood. It’s like everybody got in a big fight, and then made up afterward, and now everybody’s being nice to each other. And not just trying to be nice to each other! The staff seems calm too, although Corinne (bless her heart) still looks like she just ate a raw lemon. Even Tsukiko meets my eyes for a brief second, before giggling and scampering off. Her eyes are a cute shade of brown. She’s so shy, I don’t know if anybody here but me has ever actually seen her eyes before.

So yeah, Brin and I weren’t arrested, sent to the high security ward, or even separated from each other. That’s really cool! Of course, there were some punishments after last night. The staff did kick us both back to red wristbands, to make sure there are no “leftover harmful tendencies” or whatever, but that’s basically just a slap on the wrist. We’ll get back to yellow in another day or two. Karla was transferred off the ward, but not to the high security one I hear, but rather to a different place that can meet her special needs better or something like that. Fly away birdie, and hope you’re doing well now wherever you are!

I’m almost happy. This is a real happiness, and not my usual manic crazy thing but rather a more quiet and deep feeling that seems to be longer lasting for once. Or maybe, as Brin dryly points out, they finally found a medication that works for me. Ha ha, Brin’s glass-half-empty attitude can be funny.

Anyhoo, for the first time I’m thinking it might be good for me to be here. Not that I want to be in a psych ward of all places with its sucky food and all, but that I’m finally getting some help here. I’m crazy, but I don’t want to be. Oh right, and they say “crazy” isn’t the best word to use for myself. I may have an illness, but I am not my illness. It’s not supposed to define me or whatever.

So this “new me” is new in some ways, but the same as before in others. I still cry all the time, but I’m working on not having my “freak out” episodes when I do. Some may ask, what’s it like to be me? That’s an easy question: It’s all the feels, all of the time! But again I’m still me. I’m sensitive, not soft. I’ll deck you while I’m crying, bitch! Ok, that’s not the best example, since that’s exactly what I did to Brin when out of control that one time.

My self-harm scars are healing nicely with the special cream they give us here, especially since they were never very deep like Brin’s. Soon they’ll hardly be noticeable. Often when I’m having sex with people they’ll notice and comment on my scars, or even be attracted to them because it makes me seem dark and edgy and shit. I’m trying to learn that these are not the best people to have in my life.

So, I’m nervous as fuck about this, but make myself do it anyway: I say I’m sorry to my case workers for how badly I’ve behaved over the past weeks. That includes the shrink guy who I said sexual things to. I think they call things like this part of having better “self-awareness” or something. I’m so ashamed, but I know I shouldn’t be too ashamed about being ashamed. Ack, all this self-development stuff I’m trying to do is going to make my head explode!

Maybe it’s just in my head, but it seems like fewer new girls coming here seem to recognize Brin as That Girl who tried to kill herself on video. She’s still recognized a lot, but not like how it was when she first came here. Internet fads come and go fast, it seems. We are both happy about that. After all the excitement lately, it’s good to not be the center of attention for once.

I’m thinking to myself how other girls have stories too, and right when I do that I seem to create my own reality again! Out in the hall I hear Julia shout out: “Chrissy’s back!” Julia is a super friendly and cheerful girl who if you listen to her she seems so normal and together that you wonder why she’s even here in the hospital. Of course, then I remember why Julia uses a wheelchair. Both her legs have been cut off above the knee, and her left hand is gone too. She tried to kill herself by jumping in front of a train. It didn’t work.

Chrissy is a girl who comes here every few months, or even every few weeks. She one of the ones who gets released, then is back in again soon after. (Julia’s like that too, which is why she knows Chrissy’s been here before.) Last time Chrissy was here was just before Brin arrived, so this is the first time we’ve seen her. Oh my god! I thought Brin had the worst self-harm scars imaginable. I was wrong! Brin was cutting because she was trying to kill herself, so she “only” has a few very intense scars, and lots of smooth skin between them. Chrissy seems to self-harm for its own sake! Her arms and legs are totally criss-crossed in many old and new scars, making them as rough as tree bark. I can’t resist asking why, but Chrissy just talks about the “coldness in my heart”. Geez, Brin’s not the only creepy one here! I’m the social butterfly, but Brin seems to get along with both of them too. Brin and Julia have the suicide attempt gone very wrong thing in common, and Brin and Chrissy are second and first place in the worst scars contest. And yes, I’m trying to learn things like this shouldn’t be a contest!

Anyhoo, people come and go. One morning cute Tsukiko is no longer on the ward. The way we found out she left was there was a yellow folded paper dragon left by door to our room. Brin seemed to know what that meant right away. Brin doesn’t care about stuff, and she doesn’t have very much in the way of things, but she did keep that dragon on her nightstand. “It would appear that Tsukiko really wanted me to have it.”

In our groups there are various tests and quizzes and things to help us learn about ourselves. One day they give us mazes to solve. Some of them are really big and hard! Yeah, I suck at puzzles or anything mental. But I seem to be a natural at mazes, and whiz right through them! Also, and this is really surprising, but Brin seems really bad at them. She wasn’t just slow compared to me, but to the other girls too. Ha, there’s finally something mental that I’m better at than Brin! That’s amazing! Ha ha, get it? I said it’s “a-maze-ing”! Why do I not suck at something for once? I feel it’s because my head is one big maze, and I’ve spent so much of my life being lost, ha ha! Brin is so organized and together, that I don’t think she knows how to deal with chaos. But if she doesn’t like chaos, then why does she like me, since I’m like the embodiment of chaos? Yes, Brin as a character in “Dungeons & Dragons” would be totally “lawful” alignment, while I’m totally “chaotic”.

Another day we do a test which is supposed to tell us how depressed we are. Brin says it’s the “Hamilton Depression Rating Scale”, with 17 multiple choice questions which are each given a score or 0 or more. We both take it, and although our answers to questions are very different, we both add up to the same score of 26. Or at least that’s our scores when we first got here, when at our worst. It’s a bit lower now. It turns out a score of 25 or above is “severe depression”. Oh, I should add that they didn’t tell us it was a depression test as first, maybe so it wouldn’t affect how we answer it? Anyhoo, we’ve taken other tests while here, but this one seems to have an effect. Brin actually seems surprised that her numb state could be labeled as depression, or at least that depression is one part of it. It’s like she never thought of that before. Brin’s super smart in so many ways, but like the thing with the mazes some things seem to go right by her.

One day Brin informs me she’s learned that she may be partly “on the spectrum” of this Asperger’s or autism thing or whatever it’s called. Yeah, ya think? That actually makes a lot of sense to me, and is something I felt from our first day together. And no, I didn’t say it to her then and I don’t say that to her now! Brin’s my friend, and sometimes you just gotta nod and be supportive and not rub things in. She’s certainly gone easy on me many times, so I’m returning the favor.

Anyhoo, to make a long story short, the new Brin who didn’t shoot and kill herself when she could have is kinda like me, and also seems interested in the self-development and better self-awareness thing. She’s even mentioned having different dreams at night now, and no longer has the same dream all the time about ravens chasing her. Maybe they finally found a medication that works for her too, ha ha! We were both talking with Donna, and saying how we liked the coping methods and other stuff we are learning here. She nods knowingly.

“We can do a lot of things for you here, if you let us.”

* * *

Eventually, it’s time for me to leave! I’m “better”, or at least better than I was before. Or else my insurance ran out, as Brin comments dryly.

It’s the start of August now. I spent two whole fucking months in the psych ward. Brin tells me as a 16-year-old that’s a little over 1% of my entire life! I at least have a few weeks to get ready for the start of my Junior year in high school.

So, it’s kinda weird, but I’m almost more anxious about leaving this place than I was entering it. There’s a lot I hate about being here, but at the same time it’s a safe place where you’re taken care of. To leave and return to my family and school and all is really scary! I know why some people leave and then come back soon. I also have friends here, like Brin. I didn’t expect I would meet someone so cool! Brin’s still creepy, although maybe a bit less creepy as I’ve gotten to know her better, and her no longer trying to kill herself helps a lot too. I’m going to miss Brin a lot! I feel bad, since she’s going to be stuck here alone now.

On my last morning here, Brin quad braids my hair one more time as a going away present. Actually she does more than that! She makes four quad braids side by side, then quad braids the quad braids together! That’s… oh I’m so bad at math… yes, 16 strands total! It’s not my usual style, but still the result is pretty lit looking! “There you go Marissa, one strand for each year in your life.”

In my final hours, I pack up my room. There isn’t much, but I do have a thick folder with various drawings, assignments, pamphlets, resources, and other stuff I’ve collected over the weeks. Brin gives me the scarlet waterfall picture we drew together. “You should take this with you. Room #1 won’t be ‘The Scarlet Waterfall’ without you here too.”

My mother comes to pick me up. I’m about to go over and say hi, when suddenly there’s a clunk, a clang, and a whirring sound. That can only mean one thing! The cool air I start feeling on my face proves it. The air conditioning finally got fixed and is working again! Wow, just in time, universe! Sheesh, and right on the day when I’m leaving. At least Brin will stay cool. Of course, Brin will stay cool because she’s a really cool person!

Just before I leave, the staff gives me the things they took away because they were unsafe for me. I get my heart locket back, the one I got off the Golden Gate Bridge, and right away put it around my neck. This is actually the first time I’ve gotten to wear it! I never actually wore it when I found it on the bridge, but rather just had it in my pocket. I feel a charge of energy from it. Maybe I’ll wear it forever and never take it off, ha ha!

Here comes the part I’m really not looking forward to: Saying goodbye to Brin! I doubt I’ll be able to last a minute before starting my waterworks. Brin thankfully goes first. “Marissa Isabelle Rodriguez, thank you for being my roommate. You are a unique individual and I appreciate our time together. Your passion for life has helped inspire me to actually live mine. I am going to miss you.” Afterward she just stares at me, and gets a look on her face I’ve never seen before.

I’m trying to figure out what’s going on here with Brin, and it takes me a bit to see it. “Oh my god, Brin! Is that a tear on your cheek? It is! See, I told you I’d make you cry someday!”

“Ok, this is the second time in my life I’ve cried.” Brin’s not ashamed and doesn’t try to hide it or anything, but just admits it without fanfare. Her voice doesn’t break, although it almost does! “I suppose that means I care about you more than I thought.”

We hug, and that makes me cry my usual river! Oops, some of my tears fall on our scarlet waterfall drawing I’m holding, and it stains the ink in a few places. Unlike me, Brin only has a few tears, and I wipe them off her face for her with my fingers. Since these are special tears, and I don’t know if I’ll ever get to see Brin cry again, I can’t resist tasting them. Brin’s tears aren’t as salty as I thought they’d be! Even my mother seems to see the specialness of the moment, and waits for us quietly and doesn’t yank me away or say I shouldn’t be talking to people like That Girl.

Finally, they cut my hospital bracelet off. Although I hated that thing at first, now it feels really weird not having it on. Brin just stares at me as I leave the ward, standing still with one hand raised in farewell. I keep looking back and am waving frantically until I go around a corner and can’t see her anymore. Yes, I’m still crying.

It’s really weird being back in the “real” world. My mom and I step out of the hospital into the sunlight. Oh my god, it’s so bright! The sky is so blue! I feel like a vampire since I’ve been indoors for so long, but I don’t burn up or anything, ha ha! Yes, I’m super anxious about this, but I try to take deep breaths like they taught me. My mom comments about “being relieved that this phase is finally behind us”. Geez mom, thanks for the downer! I miss Brin already! But my mom is right in a way, and I do hope I’ve put many things behind me. I really don’t want to ever be in a mental hospital again! I can do it, and stay well or at least sane.

At least I hope.

* * *

When Brin puts that genius mind of hers to something, she gets it fast!

With no suicide plans (or at least not actively trying to kill herself anymore) along with no partner in crime, Brin has no reason to stay in the hospital. Alas, she was put in the hospital by doctors, with the involuntary commitment thing. That means she has to go to court to get out. Unlike some girls, Brin never tried faking being better to get let out early. Therefore it takes a couple more weeks for them to be sure she’s ready to leave.

I couldn’t visit the courtroom or anything, but I was able to talk with Brin on the phone before and after. She did great in court, and knew exactly the right things to say. She wore a modest looking long dress with long sleeves (to hide her scars) while there, that’s like something you’d wear to church. She managed to order that one online and have it sent to the ward too.

I do visit the hospital when Brin is released. I take the bus there alone, since my mom wasn’t going to drive me or anything. Brin somehow got me on the approved visitors list, which I didn’t think was possible since I’m not a full adult yet. Or maybe they just allow it since Brin is leaving and they know who I am and all? I have to say, it feels very different on the ward not being a patient. It feels like I don’t belong here, at least not anymore. There’s a black girl with skin even darker than Donna’s asleep in my old bed, or maybe she’s knocked out with drugs since there’s drool coming out the side of her mouth. I admire her hair, which is in nicely done cornrows.

Anyway, I get to provide moral support when Brin goes through the same checkout process that I did a couple weeks before. Once her hospital bracelet is cut off, Brin throws it away without looking at it. It makes a clunk sound when it hits the bottom of the metal trash can. I kept mine, and hung it on the wall of my room at home to remind me of all my many adventures here.

Nobody came here to pick Brin up, so she’ll be heading home alone. But I’ll at least be with her when she leaves the hospital, and one of the staff will take us out. Guess who happens to be on duty now to do that? That’s right, Donna! She leads us down to the front of the hospital. In the lobby right inside the main entrance, the three of us face each other in silence.

Brin speaks first. “Well, I survived nearly three months in a psychiatric hospital. I’m still alive, and I suppose it would be proper of me to say thank you, Donna, for doing your job in often challenging circumstances. I know that we were both a handful.”

Donna smirks. “That’s putting it mildly.”

I can’t resist jumping in with a question I’ve had for a while now. “Donna, I just have to ask! Did you know Brin wasn’t going to blow her brains out on my birthday? Ooh, sorry for being so graphic there!”

“No, of course not. But I suspected. When you didn’t do it right away, Brin, there was a good chance you weren’t going to do it at all, so it was best for me to give you space to realize that for yourself. Remember, I told you when you first got here, that I’ve never had a girl kill herself under my watch.”

Brin thinks about that for just a moment before replying. “Indeed, you did, and that’s still true. However, I told you when I first arrived here, that I would find a way to kill myself, and that’s true too. I didn’t say that I would actually do it, just that I would find a way. Therefore, it looks like we both win. You are a worthy opponent.”

Oh my god, watching the two of them go at it is so cool! It’s like two Klingon warriors from “Star Trek” facing off and talking about honor and stuff! After a moment, Brin offers her hand, and after another moment, Donna shakes it.

“I’ll admit it, Brin, in ways you’re a lot like myself. But I’ll also be honest with you: I sincerely hope I never see either of you girls, ever again.”

I burst out laughing. “Don’t worry, you won’t!”

Then Brin and I turn and walk out of the hospital together into our new lives. I wink and stick my tongue out towards the entrance where Donna is standing. She just shakes her head and sighs. Brin doesn’t look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leaving a psych ward can be as much of an adventure as entering one. The process of leaving varies based on country, whether the hospital is private or state run, and whether you entered voluntarily or were committed. Voluntary means you can leave when you want to, even if they say you’re doing it AMA (Against Medical Advice). Hopefully the state or insurance will cover your stay, otherwise the medical bill can be very expensive, which is unfortunate since financial stress is one trigger that can push you off the deep end and land you in the psych ward in the first place. :-P


	13. Brin - Learning to dance

* * *

I have a problem, and it would be untruthful of me to not admit it. I am a cutter. Or rather, using the more appropriate and less labeling wording that my therapist recommends, I often have the urge to self-harm. Not that I think therapy does any good, at least not for me, but most of the time I do at least bother to listen to her, and occasionally I even follow her advice.

The problem with cutting your arteries, feeling the massive rush of blood, and coming inches from dying is that no other form of self-harm will ever be able to match the intensity of that experience. Anything I could conceivably ever do to myself will pale in comparison, and as a result not bring any sort of fulfillment. After my experimentation, I have to conclude that self-harm is one of the most unintelligent activities that one could ever take part in, first and foremost being that it’s extremely addictive. Like illegal narcotics, any hit you take is never enough, and the hits you do partake in increasingly satisfy less and less, so you’re continually urged to go further with harmful activity. Anyway, my will is strong enough that I’ve managed to not cut myself yet since leaving the hospital, but I must admit that this is a challenge even for me. I’ve taken everything sharp out of my apartment. That means no knifes anywhere, but I was never much of a cook. No razors anywhere either, which means I go get waxed to take care of body hair.

One thing that has helped is getting tattoos. I don’t care if people see my scars, but having them present does produce certain inefficiencies in social interaction. Tattoos have three useful effects: One, they make the scars no longer visible in the tattooed section of skin. Two, they make me no longer consider cutting upon the tattooed section. Three, the process of getting a tattoo produces physical sensations similar to if I had actually self-harmed. The tattoo artist remarked that I have an exceptionally high pain tolerance, given my complete lack of reaction while getting needled. Anyway, I have the finances to go to one of the best tattoo artists in San Francisco, because not only can he ink high quality original pictures but he also has years of experience with tattooing over scarred skin. My tattoos are of scarlet roses, whose stems trace the lines of my scars, which makes them invisible to others unless you run your hand along my skin to feel the roughness. I tattooed my arms first so that I can wear short sleeves without issue, and am working on my thighs next so I can wear shorts. The results are promising on both physical and psychological levels. I’ll cover my entire body with tattoos if I have to.

The other thing that helps is being with Marissa. The hospital staff warns you not to exchange contact information with the fellow people you meet while inpatient. Of course, neither Marissa nor I are the types who follow other people’s instructions. Her passion and feeling helps balance me, and it’s apparent that I have a stabilizing effect upon her in return. I remind her to take her medication, and that things tend to get out of control whenever she’s off her meds. Marissa in return reminds me to get out and do things. She frequently sends me funny videos or music clips that I wouldn’t have watched or listened to otherwise.

Life is still pointless, but I’ve at least decided to stick it out. I’ll die of old age in another eighty years or so. I can wait.

* * *

When I first emerged from the hospital, my reintegration into society was somewhat tumultuous. In spite of it being three months since my suicide attempt and subsequent release of its video, there are still a large number of people aware of and interested in it. In other words, I frequently get recognized as That Girl, and subjected to awkward comments, probing questions, and other forms of attention that I have no interest in. A quick perusal of my social media accounts and the enormous number of direct messages, friend requests, and other activity directed towards me made me quickly realize that the entire thing was an unrecoverable lost cause, and as a result I proceeded to delete all of my e-mail and other accounts and create new ones. Marissa regularly posts inspirational memes on her social media accounts such as: “One day you will tell your story of how you overcame what you went through and it will be someone else’s survival guide.”

If being exposed to the general public is challenging, then the environment of high school will be much more extreme. It rapidly became apparent to me that I wasn’t going back to school for my Senior year, at least not in the same environment. To put it succinctly, I, a straight “A” student, am dropping out. However, that is not something that causes me any discomfort or distress. I probably should have taken this action a long time ago, since standard public school has little if any benefit for me. I can apply for my General Education Diploma (GED), since I can easily meet the requirements for it.

My “mother” was back in town when I returned home for the first time. By that time the broken window next to the bathtub had been repaired and everything was back to normal in that location. No, she didn’t come visit me, or even pick me up when I was released from the hospital. She soon leaves on another trip, and I’m back by myself in our apartment, which is a situation I prefer.

Throughout the autumn and winter months I work on what I call “The Plan”. The Plan is simply how I intend to proceed with life, which starts with getting a place of my own, getting a job, and living independently of “family”. I won’t have time to attend college, so I need a marketable skill that I can exercise as soon as I turn 18 years old a few months from now. College is too overpriced these days to have an acceptable cost/benefit ratio, and much of its actual educational benefit is too spread out over time. I can study on my own and rapidly learn the things I need to get to an equivalent level of expertise.

The night before my 18th birthday, I’m ready. By this time my “mother” has returned and is staying here again. No, she hasn’t acknowledged my upcoming birthday in any fashion, but that’s not unexpected since it’s the same behavior as in previous years.

I consider leaving her a note expressing my disapproval of her and my neglectful upbringing. For that matter, I consider waking her up and then stabbing her to death, so that her last experience of life will be knowing that I did it. That last option I quickly discard, since it would be ludicrous to commit murder right after you turn 18 and can be charged as an adult. The time for me to do something like that would have been earlier. No, I don’t do that, and nor do I do anything petty such as put meat in the curtain rods or in the air vents of her current boyfriend’s Ferrari, so that when it rots it will produce an incredibly foul pungency that will be difficult to determine the source of and remove.

In the end, I remain with my original plan. At 12:03am on my birthday, I pick up a backpack I’ve filled with the few things I care to keep, and quietly leave the apartment for the last time. I doubt my “mother” will call the police or even try to track me down. My supposition turns out to be correct.

* * *

Marissa makes my 18th birthday memorable.

After a night spent in locations that are open 24 hours, I rent my first apartment, which I can do since I’m 18 years old now. I predetermined the location and availability, so I could proceed right to it first thing in the morning. I’m planning furnishings in my new and currently empty apartment, and also what I will not have within it (such as knives or other sharp implements with which I could cut myself) when Marissa arrives. She likes my apartment, and is eager to help me go shopping to fill it out and decorate it.

Marissa told me that since I made such an effort on her 16th birthday in the hospital that she wants to return the favor for my birthday. She gives me a wrapped present, which is a silver crucifix pendant. I know Marissa isn’t financially well off, and that this probably cost a lot for her. I’m also aware that it has psychological significance, not only because it aligns with the Christian emphasis of my suicide attempt when I “asked Jesus to save me” and got my wish in a manner of speaking, but also because Marissa has several times mentioned me giving her a silver crucifix during her time-out room hallucinations. I put it on, and although I’ve never been one to wear jewelry before, I have to admit that I appreciate the sensation of wearing it. The crucifix’s weight upon my front is a calming influence, similar to that of a heavy blanket. As a result, I honestly like this present and intend to keep wearing it, and not just (for example) wear it only today out of social obligation because my friend gave it to me. I thank Marissa and give her an awkward hug. I’m still trying to get accustomed to the concept of friendship.

As a result of the above exchange, we both have necklaces that we wear all the time. Marissa’s heart shaped locket that she acquired off the Golden Gate Bridge is quite light, compared to mine which is heavy silver. Suddenly I realize something. If her locket is light, then that means it’s not solid, and it should be able to open up.

“Oh my god, you’re so right! I had always thought that if it opened it’d do so at the bottom, and when it didn’t I stopped looking. But really see it opens at the side here, and the clasp looks just like all the other little beads on it, and, well… I’m so embarrassed, and I’m supposed to be the expert with jewelry and stuff!”

Together we look at the locket. Upon opening, it reveals two small heart shaped pictures, one within each half. There’s a man and woman, both appearing to be in their 30’s, and both of Asian descent, or more specifically Korean if I had to make a more detailed estimate as to their heritage. It quickly becomes apparent to both of us that one or both of the individuals pictured may be dead, or more specifically death by suicide. Marissa found this locket on the bridge, over the side of the railing, and hanging from a nut. As a result, there’s a high probability that one of the individuals pictured placed it there, before jumping to their death. Perhaps the other person rejected them or died themselves, which causing them to proceed to the bridge out of despondency. It’s a somber consideration to be faced with those who have apparently died from suicide, when you’ve survived your own attempt. I try taking a digital picture of their photos, and doing a Google reverse image search to see if there are any hits on online photo albums or similar locations, but it fails to turn up anything. Their story, like many things in life, will have to remain a mystery.

What’s not a mystery is my future financial security. I have to admit that when I left my “mother”, that I didn’t do so without a financial plan. To put it simply, I embezzled from my own family. I’ve been alone so often that I know about and have access to many family accounts, and have collected untraceable funds of various types from several different sources. No, even though I consider myself to be a fair and balanced person, I don’t have any ethical qualms about doing this. I have enough assets to support myself for at least the next year, and I’ve also been working on my job skills.

It turns out that computer scripting, such as I used to automatically upload my suicide video to various Web sites, is a marketable and in demand skill. Within three weeks of my birthday I’ve landed a job. It’s at one of those dynamic internet startups, which may not be in existence for long, but it does at least exist at this time. My manager is a genderfluid individual with hot pink hair and 35 mm gauge earrings. A young woman dressed all in black (that would, of course, be me) fits in with that diverse work environment but doesn’t stand out too much, which is an appropriate balance.

* * *

Marissa and I continue getting together when we can. She’s often busy with school, and I have a job, but we still are able to make time for each other. There’s one very notable get-together we had, which is when I met Marissa’s father (as in her father who molested her) and this time in real life.

Interacting with rape victims is never an easy process. I find it challenging enough to deal with people in ordinary circumstances. I haven’t tried to pressure her into reporting him for his crimes. I have at least raised the issue, which Marissa rejected immediately, because apparently she wouldn’t be believed and it would tear her family apart. I didn’t push it, since she still lives at home and is under 18. A stable home life is important, and too much disruption could get Child Protective Services (CPS) involved and put her in foster care, which nobody wants. There’s nothing I could inform her about that she doesn’t already know herself and hasn’t already considered. For example, there’s the issue of whether he’s molested any other girls in the age range of 8 to 12 years, and whether he should be stopped before he can potentially harm anybody else. He’s no longer married to Marissa’s mother, and his current whereabouts are unknown, so it would be difficult to actually track him down. I recognize that this is Marissa’s fight, so to speak, which she is in control of, and that my place is to be supportive.

Most of our meetings have been just Marissa and me on our own. Today she has invited me to a large family gathering. This is the first time I will have met her mother and brothers outside of the hospital environment, although the gathering is busy and loud enough that I shouldn’t have to worry about whether they approve of my presence or about attracting too much attention in general. However, I do overhear _“Esa Chica”_ mentioned more than once. My contemporary self is trying to get more in touch with feeling things, and I suppose I should be annoyed that I’m still That Girl even in Spanish.

After a couple of hours there’s a minor commotion, in which I hear that Marissa’s father is arriving uninvited. Although the others probably aren’t aware of his crimes, he does appear to be enough of a scoundrel that his presence is controversial. Marissa immediately panics, and runs and locks herself in the bathroom. I attempt to be supportive from the other side of the locked door and ask if there’s anything I can do for her, such as punch him in the face, or at least stealthily put cayenne pepper (or better yet syrup of ipecac) in his food. She tells me I shouldn’t talk with him at all, and I promise her that I won’t say even a word to him.

Marissa tells me that I should return to the party, so I do so. It’s lunch time, and there’s an enormous amount of food put out. One positive aspect about Marissa’s family and friends is that they know how to host a quality party. I select a hot dog, and a knife to cut it with. That last part makes me pause for a second, because this is the first time I’ve held a sharp knife since my suicide attempt.

I’m thinking about knives when I hear a rough voice. That can only be Marissa’s father who has entered the room. I keep my back to him. However, as a pale girl with red hair in a gathering where everybody else is at least partially Hispanic, I definitely stand out. “Hey, you! You there! My daughter was with some redhead in the loony bin? Was that you?”

I’m in a difficult situation. I promised Marissa that I wouldn’t say a word to her father, and I’m not going to break my promise. What should I do? An idea occurs to me. Perhaps I should conduct an experiment to see if there’s potentially anything behind what Marissa keeps calling her psychic visions.

I’ve never tried to use my supposedly intense gaze as a weapon before, so this is going to be new for me. I turn around quickly, immediately locate and fix my eyes upon Mr. Rodriguez, and hit him with the most intense stare I can summon forth. At the same time, I take my knife and cut the wiener of my hot dog lengthwise from end to end, resulting in two half-wieners that are each half of a cylinder. I hold it at an appropriate angle so that he can see the process. That was, according to Marissa, the exact same thing I did to his penis while torturing him during her psychotic hallucination.

Marissa’s father sees my face for the first time, and looks at me for just a second before his eyes get wide in a classic manner as if he has just seen a ghost. He takes a step back, his legs slip out from underneath him, and he falls backward, with the tray of food he was holding flying half way across the room. His head hits the ground with a thud, and I have to admit that the impact makes a satisfying sound.

I have no hesitation kicking someone while they’re down, so to speak. I quickly formulate an idea for how to continue, which starts with me picking up two kiwi fruits from the large and generously stocked fruit bowl. Marissa’s father is currently on the ground surrounded by various people checking to see if he’s okay. I move closer and make small talk about the party with a random person nearby, and although I can’t address Mr. Rodriguez directly, I do say something loudly that he’s certain to overhear. “We’ve been going for two hours so far, and it’s time for lunch.” That’s another line from the psychic torture session, which I spoke immediately before feeding him his own testicles, but which will seem like a part of ordinary conversation to anybody else present. The skin of a kiwi fruit has a remarkable resemblance to a hairy scrotum, and while holding the two kiwi fruit up, I look over at him again on the ground with another intense stare. This time he gasps for air before fainting completely, his head hitting the ground with another soft thud.

My experiment finished, I leave to tell Marissa what happened, and hopefully coax her out of the bathroom. Supposedly my “higher self” said that Mr. Rodriguez was having very interesting dreams at the time of the imagined torture session, which means there’s a potential he might recognize me and my actions. Certainly his interesting reaction to me suggests that might be true, although again I can’t prove anything definitively. Although the reality of spiritual energies is still inconclusive, I do recognize that there’s a high probability that with Marissa in my life there will be further considerations and experiments. I’m almost certain that there will be none involving Mr. Rodriguez though, because I can hear from the commotion in the main room that he’s awakened, and is in the process of leaving the premises as fast as humanly possible. I doubt either of us will ever see him again.

* * *

During another memorable get-together, Marissa and I are walking through the streets of San Francisco. In the downtown area there are often people handing out leaflets for some cause or another, and at some point somebody hands Marissa a Gospel tract. I always walk by such people as if they don’t exist, but Marissa is eternally engaged with and sensitive to her environment. She hands the Gospel tract to me for some reason, and since there’s no trash or recycling receptacle anywhere within sight, and I don’t want to litter, I put it in my pocket.

On the next block, we walk past a homeless man. He’s panhandling while sitting against a brick wall, and he reeks of urine and body odor. He looks up with an elated look upon his face. “Oh! Scarlet! It’s you! God, I never thought I’d ever get to meet you! Please, you’ve gotta help me!”

This, of course, isn’t the first time somebody has recognized me, but this is the first time a homeless individual has called me out. It’s becoming increasingly apparent to me that I’m going to have to change my appearance in a more radical fashion if I don’t want to keep being seen as That Girl. Marissa and I are on a busy sidewalk, so there’s no risk to us from this unseemly individual. “I don’t have any cash to give you.” That’s not a lie, because I pay for everything now with my new credit card.

“Ah, I don’t want your money, girl! I want your luck! You were touched by the Lord! You were saved! Me, I’m down on me luck. Shit’s happened to me you wouldn’t believe! Please help me out, will you Scarlet? I’ve lost me faith. Why were you saved and not me?”

I look to Marissa for assistance, since her family is Catholic. Marissa just laughs and steps back. “Ha ha, you made your bed Brin, so you get to sleep in it!” Marissa is my BFF, and I appreciate her unique personality, but I must confess that at times she can be annoying.

Ok, I can say something useful here. Marissa would just speak spontaneously “from the heart” or something similar, but I have to think about what I’m going to say, and more specifically what I should say to somebody who perceives me as a Christian authority. The crucifix Marissa gave me is visibly hanging around my neck, so I can’t fault him for seeing me in this manner.

“Well, faith, by definition, isn’t something based on external good or bad circumstances. If you have it, it’s just there, regardless. There’s a parable in the Bible about a disciple of Jesus asking Him about a blind man. That disciple asked if the man was blind due to his own sins, or his own bad karma to use a term from other religious belief systems. Jesus said that the blind man didn’t sin, and nor did his parents, but rather it was because ‘the works of God should be revealed in him’. Or to put it more succinctly: ‘You did not choose Me, but I chose you, and I set you that you should go forth and bear fruit.’ That’s John 15:16. This doesn’t make the whole ‘why do bad things happen to good people’ issue any easier to understand, but it can allow us to accept whatever circumstances happened in the past and move forward to the best of our ability.”

No, I don’t normally know or care about Bible quotes, however since I had just skimmed the Gospel tract, I had that one memorized, as well as the essence of the parable about Jesus and the blind man which was also in it. I hand the tract to him, to give it a better home so to speak. The homeless man looks at me for a long moment, before speaking. “Ah, thank you, Scarlet! Thank you so much! You’re a real gift to the world, you know that? God bless you!”

I certainly wouldn’t consider myself a gift or even a positive influence on the world, but I see no reason to adjust his assessment of me. Speaking of impressions, Marissa looks impressed as we walk onward. “Wow, you’re a natural at this! Brin, you realize you more or less just Witnessed for Jesus Christ, and you’re not even a Christian. Supposedly! Sometimes I wonder, since you wear that crucifix and all.”

I wear the crucifix because I like the feel of its weight, and because Marissa gave it to me. However, I can’t deny that a stranger seeing me with it may conclude that I converted after being “saved by Jesus” after my suicide attempt. Nevertheless, I still am not convinced as to the validity of Christianity or any other form of spirituality. Besides, if I had to pick a classic religion, I believe the wisdom and detachment of Buddhism would align more with my disposition than traditional Christianity.

“Well, the Lord, if He exists, works in mysterious ways. But seriously, I’ve been considering the subject of spirituality lately, and how the events in my life apply to it. I recognize that although there’s no definitive proof for spiritual phenomena, I’ve had enough atypical experiences that I can’t completely rule it out. Therefore, I’ve come to a decision. Fine, I am officially renouncing my atheism. I’m now declaring myself to be agnostic. Happy?”

In spite of Marissa constantly considering herself to be intellectually deficient compared to me, she does have a certain wisdom and insight. She just looks at me and asks a question which can be interpreted in more than one fashion.

“I don’t know Brin, are you?”

* * *

While contemplating my happiness or lack thereof, I consider my state of being from a wider perspective.

I don’t expect my life story to be like that of other people. There’s no guarantee anybody else in a similar situation as myself will have similar experiences in a psychiatric hospital. Both Marissa and I were hospitalized only once before being “cured”. At least only once so far, and I hope that neither of us return. Many with similar difficulties are in the hospital repeatedly, or even multiple times per month. In other words, my path has been easier than many.

Also, I grew up in financial security, and beyond that I know that most people don’t get a quality well paying job the moment they turn 18. I suppose that makes me a “poor little rich girl”. Money may not be able to buy happiness, but it can at least reduce unhappiness.

Even my own suicide attempt had little negative affect other than some extreme scarring, when it could have easily resulted in permanent brain damage or other organ failure from loss of blood. I know that not everybody who is suicidal became that way due to an abusive childhood or even due to any particular reason. Some of us are just depressed, in spite of most everything in life being fine on an outer level. At any rate, I am certainly not intending to be any sort of a hero or role model for people to look up to. But this is still my story.

* * *

My personal story continues, and Marissa is a part of it.

Marissa has a natural sense of style, and is always willing to go shopping with me and help me pick out quality clothes for work and other environments. She also continues to share memes online, songs she thinks I might like, and related aspects of culture. Some types of music I find in alignment with my disposition, and it helps me similar to the manner that getting tattoos has been of assistance.

She notes that my playlist is full of Gothic music, and that I seem to be “going Goth” on her. I protest that I haven’t been doing any such thing. “I’m not trying to be part of any culture or subculture.”

“Ha ha, that’s why you make the perfect Goth! You’re not posing or trying too hard or anything like that. You’re just being yourself, and don’t care what anybody else thinks. You already liked black clothes, you have the perfect attitude for it, and your new taste in music totally fits too. You’ve always been Goth, Brin, but just never knew it! Seriously, you’re like Wednesday Addams from ‘The Addams Family’, or at least what she’d be like once she grows up.”

Marissa continues that line of thinking and suggests that since I’m a Goth now, that we should go out dancing together during “Goth night” at this club that she’s familiar with. Gothic or otherwise, dancing is not something I would ever consider doing, not even to music that I have an affinity for, and I make that clear. “I don’t dance.”

“Ha ha, that’s the same thing you said when we were in the hospital. But come on, you didn’t dance with me on my birthday, so you have to now!”

Well, I never said I would, and therefore I don’t strictly have to do anything, and Marissa knows it. However, I see no reason why I can’t give her suggestion a try as an experiment.

Even though I am, according to Marissa, naturally Gothic, she herself is a bit of a chameleon, and is quite proficient with clothing and makeup to produce any look she wants to have. As a result, on our next meeting two Gothed out young women head toward a club, specifically one of the classic establishments which has been around since the early 1990’s. I notice that it only allows people 18 years and older inside. I can be admitted naturally, while Marissa uses her fake ID to get inside.

I would have thought dancing would be awkward for me. However, I realize I have two assets that assist with effective performance. One, due to lack of feelings I’m not self-consciousness and rarely if ever get embarrassed, and therefore I don’t inhibit myself. Two, I honestly don’t care what anybody thinks of me or what I do, which allows me to align with the classic adage and “dance like nobody is watching”. Besides, I did do a YouTube educational session beforehand, to understand the basics and essence behind what we’re doing here. It never hurts to be prepared. Marissa looks positively surprised.

“Wow, you’re a natural at this, too! You sure you’ve never done this before?”

I do have to admit that dancing, and doing so with Marissa, is a better experience than I originally estimated it would be. I might even have to use the word “fun” to describe it. Anyway, afterward we’re outside in the cool night together, looking at the colorful lights of the city with a full moon shining down from above. Marissa tells a joke, and I tell one in turn that I think she might appreciate, and we both chuckle happily. Marissa suddenly looks completely shocked.

“Oh my god! You did it, you finally did it for the very first time!” Marissa’s mouth and eyes are both open wide, and it takes me a second to realize what she’s so surprised about.

“Brin, you have the most amazing smile!” :-)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If Brin can smile for the first time, then all things are possible in this world! ;-) Anyway, self-harm and even suicide is ultimately a coping mechanism, or a way of dealing with intense feelings (or lack thereof). Overcoming these habits or tendencies comes from how effectively one can determine and address the root causes and problems. Distraction techniques and medication can help, but (for example) getting out of an abusive environment that’s causing distress in the first place is likely to be much more effective. It’s hard to bail a sinking rowboat if there’s still a big hole in its side. :-P


	14. Marissa - Adulting

* * *

Arm in arm, Brin and I walk through the morning sunlight toward the Golden Gate Bridge. Mist rises from the wet cement walkway as the late winter sun warms it. It’s quite chilly out, but Brin is wearing a short skirt and midriff showing tank top as if it were the middle of summer. Brin really is a lot like Elsa from “Frozen”, because the cold never seems to bother her. Anyway, both her skirt and top are black, of course, as are her shiny boots. She’s also wearing the silver crucifix I gave her. Since her 18th birthday I’ve never seen her without it, and that makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

So we’ve been planning this little outing for a few weeks now. Last time I was here, I almost fell off the bridge and was dragged off to the mental hospital! That was nearly a year ago. I’m a bit nervous, and hoping I won’t freak out or anything about coming here. Brin got a bar of dark chocolate for us to celebrate with after. That’s sweet of her, just like chocolate is sweet, ha ha! Anyhoo, I’m way too nervous around heights. That’s why our arms are linked, for comfort and so I don’t fall off the edge or anything. Although I like linking arms with Brin just because!

With our arms still linked, Brin slowly edges over so she’s close to the bridge’s railing, and looks over the side. “This is interesting. They are in the process of building a suicide barrier. I can see the mesh catching mechanism below us, and they’ve built it under much of the bridge’s span, except for those few remaining sections that they have yet to complete it for.”

Yeah, so this means nobody can fall or jump off the bridge anymore. End of an era, because I know many have jumped to their deaths here over the years, which is kinda freaky. I wonder who will be the last person to ever jump? They’d have to do it fast, in that last area Brin is pointing to, before they finish the net thingy.

While looking along the bridge, my Spidey-sense tingles. Something is wrong, and I look around to see what it could be. Yep, it’s exactly what I was just thinking about! There’s a man a ways ahead of us, walking alone and looking sad. Unless you’ve been suicidal yourself or been around suicidal people for a while, you wouldn’t know what it means to have “suicide radar”.

I catch Brin’s eye. She seems to get what’s going on too. I take off running with some quick words. “Come on! We both have karma to fix!”

Looking ahead, I see the man has stopped and climbed up to sit on the railing, with his legs over the far side. Even wearing her boots, Brin still manages to pass me and get there first. She stops fast right in front of him, and clumsy me who’s still going rams into Brin from behind. We both tumble down in a tangle of arms and legs, and I get a few scrapes on the rough cement. “Ow! Fuck!”

I feel so bad, because this is like the third time I’ve knocked Brin to the ground now! I’m terrified that the man will have jumped by the time we can do anything. I get up to my knees and blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “Stop! Don’t do it!”

The man hasn’t jumped yet, which is cool. He’s still sitting on the railing, looking back over his shoulder at us. He looked really surprised, almost as if we’re funny. Which I suppose we are, given our clumsy antics. He’s kind of fat, and I can see the top of his butt crack over the top of his pants, and he’s wearing a red baseball cap. Oh, I really hope it’s not one of those “Make America Great Again” hats. Otherwise I’d tell that Trump loving fucker to jump and do us all a favor! Ha ha, no I could never do that, not to anybody. A closer look shows it’s actually a cap for the San Francisco 49ers football team. Whew!

He speaks in a wheezy voice. “Uh, yeah. If you girls are trying to stop me, you’re both seriously bad at this. You might want to turn away now so you don’t see this... No? Fine, then give me one good reason why I shouldn’t jump, one I haven’t heard before.”

Ack, I’m being put on the spot here! I heard how once somebody was asked that very question, and when he didn’t reply right away, the other person jumped right in front of him. Eek! Wow, is this how scared all the other people were when I was over the edge last year? Speaking of which, where are all the crowds of people that usually show up whenever someone’s on the edge like this, like happened with me? I don’t think we can just grab him either, because he’s big enough he’d likely just pull Brin and me over the edge with him, and that would really suck! Anyhoo, I need to do something, like right now!

“Wait! I need more time! Hey, um, are you hungry? Do you want some chocolate? I’m serious, it’s super yummy!”

I dive into Brin’s black purse, grab our bar of chocolate, rip off the wrapping, and toss it up to him. Fortunately, my aim is ok for once, and it doesn’t go sailing past him over the edge, or worse making him reach for it and lose his balance and fall off, or anything like that! He catches the chocolate, and bites off a big chunk, instead of breaking off squares like a normal person.

The chocolate gives Brin a chance to think of something to say. “Excuse me mister, but do you like the 49ers? Your hat would indicate so. I understand that they have been working hard rebuilding their team lately. Perhaps they will beat their division rival Seattle Seahawks this year.” Wow, I didn’t know Brin knew anything about sports. He looks surprised too, maybe because a girl is actually talking football, and takes another big bite of chocolate.

“Yeah, with their good draft picks, I’ve been looking forward to seeing… Hey! I see what you bitches are doing. Harumph, at least you’re trying. I did say if just one person smiled at me today or gave the slightest fuck I might not do it.” He takes a third ginormous bite of chocolate. I wonder if eating like that gives him the too high blood sugar diabetes thing?

“So yeah, not today. Can’t promise I won’t come back tomorrow.” He swings his legs back over the railing, and slides heavily to the ground. He looks at us more closely, especially me. “Hey, you girls are cute! Has anybody ever told you that before?”

Brin puts a stop to it quickly. “What part of ‘jailbait’ don’t you understand, mister, the ‘jail’ or the ‘bait’?”

He barks a laugh, stuffs the rest of the chocolate into his mouth, waves once, and waddles off before we can do anything else like suggest a good crisis line or therapist or something like that.

Ha ha, wowie! So, I gotta say, I suddenly feel super great! It’s like I’ve just snorted a big hit of something that I shouldn’t admit to having ever taken. But yeah, we might have saved a life today! And doing this makes me feel less bad about what happened here last year. Brin however almost looks annoyed for some reason. “What, so we’re doing good deeds now? What’s next? Are we going to go vegan, volunteer at soup kitchens for the homeless, and start cutting the plastic rings around six-packs so little animals don’t get their heads entangled within them?”

I burst out laughing. “The sky’s the limit Brin, the sky’s the limit!”

* * *

I tell Brin I’m very sorry for giving away our chocolate, but she says it’s ok and we can easily get more. That’s cool, because I’m really in the mood to celebrate after what we did on the bridge. We find the nearest grocery store. Brin and I have gone shopping together before, but this is our first time in this place.

Anyhoo, we’re walking and laughing together in the store. Ok, I’m doing the laughing, but even Brin is chatty, which is cool. Suddenly Brin stops, and as usual I bump into her. At least this time neither of us fall down! Brin points down an aisle, and guess who we see? Donna is half way down the aisle, pushing a shopping cart.

Donna has her back to us, and is wearing a leather jacket with what looks like army stuff printed on it. I hear Brin mutter to herself that she always suspected that Donna was ex-military. What’s more, there’s a toddler sitting in the cart. I didn’t expect someone like Donna to be a mother! Of course, the kid could just be some other family member, or somebody she’s babysitting as a side job, or some such. But the kid has the exact same skin color as Donna, which of course doesn’t mean anything either, but still that makes me think it’s hers!

I’m about to call out and run over and give Donna a hug and ask how she’s doing and all, when Brin puts her arm out in front of me, and speaks in a low voice. “No. Donna explicitly said that she didn’t want to see either of us ever again. I see no reason not to honor her request.”

Uh, ok. I’m not the sharpest tool in the shed, so it takes me a minute to figure this out, but I’m pretty sure Donna knows we’re like right behind her. Donna’s way too alert and shit, and Brin and I were talking loudly just the aisle over before we saw her. Donna hasn’t said hello yet either, so she has to be waiting to see what we do. Her back is still to us, and right now she’s looking at a box of something she took off the shelf.

Brin quietly leads us away, and we stop in the frozen food aisle. I still want to talk to Donna, but Brin says we shouldn’t. All the frozen stuff around us makes me think of my favorite movie. Brin says something that makes me laugh. “I believe the most appropriate way to emphasize why we should decline this encounter is the following sentence: ‘I'm never going back, the past is in the past...’ Yes, that time I was intentionally quoting the movie ‘Frozen’.”

Ha ha, Brin’s developing a sense of humor, in her own dry way. Anyhoo, I sort of see her point, so I “Let It Go”, so to speak! Once we pay for the chocolate, back on the street I’m feeling how crazy this day is. So far we’ve talked down a suicidal person, and have seen Donna. All we need now is for Brin to meet up with those two Mexican guys who saved her life after she tried to kill herself. Maybe I can do what seems to be my superpower when I imagine something and it happens. I look around, but don’t see anybody that looks like them. I then try imagining somebody giving me a million dollars, and what that would feel like, but alas nothing happens with that either. Ha ha, it was worth a try!

A few minutes later, we round a corner downtown, when Brin does her sudden stop thing again. This time I manage to stop too before running into her. Yay, I’m getting better at things! See, I can do it, at least sometimes! Anyhoo, I’m looking around trying to find what’s up with Brin. Then I see that’s what’s up is something that’s actually “up”. Brin is looking up, so I do too, and… holy fuck! I swear to god this is true, and I am not making this up! There’s this glassy building across the street from us, and several floors up is a big platform thing on the outside with two guys standing on it. That has to be them, it has to: Jesus and Manuel, the two window washer guys who rescued Brin.

I wait to see what Brin does. This ought to be good! She walks over to the base of the building, and shouts up to them. The two guys look down, and seem to get excited. They’re talking fast to each other, but since they’re about five floors up, I can’t really hear them. I’m sure they know it’s Brin, since she stands out with her blood red hair and all. If I carried a half dead (and half naked) girl to the hospital, I’m sure I’d recognize her if I ever saw her again too.

Once Brin has their attention, she shouts up to them. “Hello! _Hola señores!_ Thank you for helping me last year! _Muchas_ _gracias!_ ”

I think they hear her and understand, and with big smiles wish her blessings and good health. _“Salud! Salud!”_

Brin holds up her hand in a wave, and then turns away and starts walking off. Wow, Brin is like a master of being brief and to the point. I run to catch up with her. “Wait, Brin! So that’s it? Don’t you want to do more, like chat with them or something? This is like karma day for both of us!”

“No, I do not, for multiple reasons. One, they’re working and don’t have time to chat with the public. Two, based on the moisture upon the windows, I can see that they’re in the process of working their way up the building, so over time it would be even harder to hear and talk to them. Three, and perhaps most fundamentally, I want to get this over with, so to speak. In alignment with my new agnostic belief system, I can’t say whether there’s anything to ‘karma’, however I can’t rule it out. If there is such a thing as karma, then I should thank them now, so I don’t have to do it in some afterlife (if it exists) or in my next life (if some form of reincarnation exists).”

Ha ha, Brin is such a unique person! Soon we get back to Brin’s apartment, and I’m feeling the craziness for the day is finally over. I think Brin agrees, because she holds up the bag we got at the grocery store.

“Now we can proceed to have our chocolate.”

* * *

A few months later, it’s my birthday again! I’m 17 now! That’s the same age Brin was when I met her a little over a year ago in the hospital.

Since I love dressing up, I wear the pale blue dress Brin got me for my birthday last year. This should be cool, since she’s hasn’t yet seen me wear it. I love this sparkly dress so much! It’s very form fitting and shows off a lot of skin! That’s part of why I like it of course, but for some reason I’m nervous about Brin seeing me in it. I don’t want to act like a slut around her.

It’s a weekday, so Brin had work and I had school. That means it’s evening when I walk to her apartment from the bus stop. I’m wearing my coat over my dress to protect it and to avoid catcalls from people, and I’m wondering if I should find a place to change into something more modest. Too late! I’m in view of her apartment already, and she already sees me. Brin looks down from her window and waves, and flashes her dazzling smile. It’s brief, and she doesn’t smile often, but when she does it’s so worth the wait!

I walk up the stairs outside to the third floor where Brin’s apartment is. A raven or crow (I can never tell them apart) is perched on the railing right outside her door. It caws at me three times then flies off towards the setting sun.

So, things have been happening in my life lately! I got a job! Ok, it’s not full time like Brin has. It’s only a Saturday thing at the mall, where I offer free beauty samples to people. It’s a lot of fun! Brin said it’s “a logical fit for your skill set”.

Speaking of beauty, a few months ago I started a YouTube channel, in which I offer advice on hairstyle, makeup, fashion, and combining the three into different looks. Brin’s helped me a lot with the tech side of things. I think it’s working, especially her tips for how to promote yourself online. I reached 20K subscribers just this week, and have almost as many Instagram followers too! I’m super thankful for Brin and impressed it’s grown so much so fast. In Brin’s typical deadpan voice she told me why. “I have personal experience with making videos go viral.” Ha ha, you’re not only super helpful, but also super funny!

Brin’s been changing a lot too! A couple months ago, she got tired of being seen as That Girl by everybody, and so cut off all her beautiful red hair. As in all-of-it-so-I’m-bald-now cut it. I didn’t want her to, but it’s her hair and her choice. She did keep and give me her short braid though, which is cool because usually she wouldn’t think to save something like that. I sometimes hold it while falling asleep. Anyhoo, when her hair starting growing in again, she dyed it pitch black. We have the same color hair now, although mine isn’t dyed. Brin is like Enya or classic Sinead O’Connor, who show that Irish women can look great with really short hair.

Or wait, I know! Brin’s even more like Lisbeth from “The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo”, who’s also a computer hacker with short red hair that’s dyed black, and who dresses in black, tortures sex offenders, and has struggled with the mental health thing. Wow, so many similar things there! I’ll have to ask Brin if she’s ever read or watched it.

So, Brin is more Goth than ever now. When she started getting into it, I thought she would keep going. I was expecting her to go all butch, punk, and death metal on me. Instead just the opposite happened, and her style is now a softer romantic Goth vibe with classic lace and skirts and that sort of thing. Anyhoo, even with super short hair she can pull off that look! That’s partly my doing, since I help her shop and often suggest things that would look lit on her. It’s fun shopping with Brin, especially since she can afford the cool outfits.

Actually, the wearing skirts isn’t really new, because I don’t think I’ve ever seen Brin wear pants, not even once. I’ve peeked in her closet (after asking first of course) and she doesn’t even own a pair. It’s always a dress, skirt, or shorts. Or nothing at all, I suppose I should add, ha ha! Speaking of which, Brin’s not wearing much now. She’s wearing black shorts and one of those super loose tank tops with huge arm holes that shows off much of her back.

Of course, there’s a reason why her back is airing out. Brin’s half way through getting another tattoo, a large one this time! It’s a raven sitting on a nest of eggs, and it covers her whole upper back, where all her old scars are. It’s really cool! One of the eggs is cracking, and you can see a cute little eye peeking out of it. Yes, the raven and her chick are both staring at you intensely, just like Brin does. About that stare, I should add that I can see Brin blinking from time to time now, although her look is still super intense.

So with different hair and clothes and tattoos, Brin looks very different now! She still looks great, but very different than before. I think the whole “big outer change reflects big inner change” thing has been going on with her. If Brin grows her (now black) hair to be long (or wears a long wig) and wears white instead of black, she would make a perfect version of creepy character Samara from “The Ring”! I’ll have to run that idea by her come Halloween.

Once inside, Brin greets me, wishes me happy birthday, and compliments my dress. She does it in her usual flat way, so I can’t tell what she’s feeling. I still blush about it though! I can’t tell if she saw that, or if she did see that what she thinks about me blushing when I see her.

Right now she’s in the kitchen getting a few cans of pop ready. I see her take the last can off its plastic six pack ring thingy, and then she stops and holds it for several long seconds. I keep watching. Finally she sighs and cuts up the plastic, using a pair of bad school scissors (because she doesn’t have anything sharp like real scissors in the place). Aww, she can’t help but do a good deed! I try to keep from laughing. Wow, I actually succeed! See, I can control my emotions, at least sometimes!

My birthday cake this year is one of those cupcake cakes, with a bunch of cupcakes in rows all covered with one big layer of frosting. That makes it easy to take pieces, which is useful since Brin doesn’t keep any knifes in her place. Brin asked me what I wanted last week, and when I told her I wanted cupcakes, she actually got really surprised. She was like, are you sure about this, given the whole thing with your father? I am! Cupcakes are yummy and can be a good thing, and I can make new and good memories with them! My past can go fuck itself!

For my presents this year Brin first gives me a bunch of new clothes, like almost my entire wishlist. That had to be expensive! A bunch of them will be featured in my next videos. Speaking of expensive, she then gives me a new phone, which is one good enough to finally actually play “Pokémon GO”. Brin got herself a new phone back when she got out of the hospital (because she broke her old one when trying to kill herself) so this means we can play it together. Finally, she gives me one of those twenty pound weighted blankets, which is supposed to better your mood in a big way, because it feels like you’re being hugged.

I’m super happy, and like last year I get all teary eyed again. I feel like I have everything I’ve ever wanted now.

Well, almost.

* * *

So, I have a secret! Guess what it is? I have a huge crush on Brin! I have for a while, but didn’t want to admit it. Yeah, I’m madly in love with her! I know what I _really_ want to have for my birthday, ha ha! I’m trying to both accept my feelings, but not let them carry me away like they usually do. I’m trying to learn there’s a difference between love and lust or infatuation or whatever they call it.

I haven’t told Brin how I feel about her, of course. I’m so scared she’ll not like me back, or worse will stop being my friend! Let’s face it, Brin and I are so different. I’m very social and sexual, and don’t forget emotional as fuck. Brin is just the opposite. Brin’s like such a mature woman with her apartment and real job and all, and I have a long ways to go. We’d be an opposites attract kind of thing, but would it ever stand a chance of working? And if so for how long? But hey, even if it doesn’t work, I’m sure I’d love to go on the journey of finding that out, hee hee!

Brin is surprisingly easygoing in certain respects, and often accepts my ideas to do things, buy certain types of clothing, and so on, which is cool. Even though she’s supposedly so lack of feeling, I still feel “validated” (that’s a word my therapist uses) around her like I do with nobody else. However, in the few cases when she really decides not to do something, no amount of effort can change her. That’s cool too, that she’s so sure of herself and her boundaries.

Of course, Brin is still really hard to read, and I can’t tell if she likes me, or already knows that I like her, or what. Even though I hate the way I look, I at least see now that many people seem to find me attractive. Guys hit on me all the time because they want to fuck me, but one glare or quiet comment from Brin always sends them running. I really like having her support, but I’m learning to take care of myself too, and not depend on other people. I want to avoid being “codependent” or whatever they call it. I can send the creeps running too with a bunch of cuss words!

About the sex thing, I know Brin’s a virgin. I so want to deflower her so bad! There, I said it, at least to myself. Just thinking of Brin that way makes me feel like I’m about to burst! I got Brin to cry, dance, smile, and laugh for the first time, so maybe I can get her to have sex too! Normally I’d just strip naked in front of her and then try to get her to take her clothes off too, like I do with most people when I want to get with them. But with Brin it’s different. Even with my slightly higher confidence than I’ve had in years past, I’m still super nervous about seducing her or telling her my feelings or whatever, and I really don’t want to fuck this up.

What would it even be like to have sex with someone like Brin? Would she just lie there half dead, or would she let a bunch of repressed feelings burst forth and explode like a volcano? And here’s another issue: Maybe Brin’s into bondage. That would be a problem! Although I might be willing to overcome my dislike of it for her. Of course, I doubt Brin is much into anything sexually.

But then again, maybe she’s more sensual than I expect? Here’s something about her: She has satin sheets. And she sleeps naked. That’s right, Brin sleeps completely naked on red satin sheets every night. I’m starting to think Brin might be a bit of a nudist, since I’ve gotten a full view of her a few times now. Seriously, is she like trying to drive me crazy?

Here’s one time where I saw her. Last time I spent the night here, I slept on the couch, while Brin slept in her room on her queen size bed. (Which has plenty of room for two, I might add, and that I’d love to join her in her silky bed sometime. I’d feel like a million dollars if I could do that!) Anyhoo, Brin got up in the middle of the night to pee, and in the nude walked right past me on the couch. Based on my childhood, I never sleep very well, and due to my unfortunate past that can go fuck itself, I’ve gotten very good at pretending to be asleep, with my eyes mostly closed. In other words, I don’t think Brin knows I was awake and saw her. On the way back to her room, she stopped right in front of me and stared at me silently for a minute. The watching me sleep thing is kind of creepy, but that’s better than her ignoring me. I’m hoping tonight will be a sleepover too, in more ways than one!

I did manage to gather the courage to ask her about the satin sheets and sleeping naked thing the other week. Brin said both are good for the skin, which is important since she has tattoos and scars. Maybe that’s why she never wears pants, to avoid stuff rubbing on her legs.

After a long pause she gave me another reason for it. Brin’s been talking with her therapist about “learning to feel more”, and the sheets thing is one way to do that. I’m sure the tattoos are kind of like that too, as in a way to feel things. I don’t have any tattoos, at least not yet. I don’t know if I could ever get one, since ouchie that would be so painful, and I feel things intense enough as it is!

So yeah, my birthday evening is fast getting later. I still haven’t gotten the courage to tell Brin how I feel about her. I still don’t even know yet if tonight’s going to be a sleepover either, although that may depend on what I do or don’t do. I’m anxious enough that Brin can probably tell something’s up, but she hasn’t said anything about it yet. I’m still vacillating (that’s a word I learned from Brin) about it, when I think of a few more things.

Last month Brin asked me if I would live with her and be her roommate. That’s super major! You wouldn’t ask that of somebody you didn’t really care for, would you? But she said she wouldn’t live with me until after I turn 18. What, that’s a whole fucking year away! I want to move out now! It’s way cooler here than at home. But Brin says not even she moved out until she was 18, and in spite of my mom’s and brothers’ flaws I should still stay in that stable environment, at least until I finish high school. Of course, maybe there’s another reason for wanting me to be over 18 too, because then there’s no limit to the things we can do together!

Brin gave me an Anna dress from “Frozen” last year, and Anna is Elsa’s sister. Does she just think of me as a sister? Ack, I’m sure Brin is going to friendzone me so bad! But wait! I remember back when right after she almost shot herself in the hospital, she said she loved me too. It was quick and in passing, but she did say it. Brin never lies.

So, yeah. I know I’m not going to know until I ask, and until we have a nice adult talk about what our feelings are, so I should do this pronto! I want to be mature. I want to do the adulting thing. Let’s start now!

* * *

Brin says she’s cried only twice in her entire life. Once due to pain or whatever that was when she was bleeding to death after her suicide attempt, and then due to sadness when I left the mental hospital before her. Tonight she cried for the third time, and this time was due to happiness. <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE END. :-) Thank you for journeying with me! PS: At the time the last chapter takes place (middle of 2019) the San Francisco 49ers had just finished a poor 4 wins and 12 losses season. In the next season (late 2019) they do very well, start out 9-0 and are the last undefeated team, and make it all the way to the Super Bowl, so hopefully that man is glad he didn’t jump. ;-)


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